


Stalker

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abduction, Dubious Consent, Friends to Lovers, Interactive Fiction, M/M, Minor Character Death, Psychological Torture, Torture, Vincent Meoblinn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:11:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 25,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Lestrade notice an unusual pattern of comments on John's blog and realize he has a stalker! Alarmed, they go to warn him only to find him too distracted by the return of our favorite consulting detective to feel any concern. Sadly, John isn't the only one shaken up by Sherlock's return and things take a terrifying turn. (Will have a happy ending, promises!)</p><p>Dedicated to Val_rae03, who has given me so many lovely prompts that I decided to pick one and write it before it festered. Enjoy, my dear!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Val_rae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_rae/gifts).



I do not read comments. Corrections can be sent [HERE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/?tag=7.+spelling/grammar+corrections). Comments will be ignored and the user banned without warning.

We do not own ANY of these characters, shows, movies, or the companies associated with them. We do not make money off these fics and will not accept offers of funds.

***

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

Lestrade walked down the hall with coffee in one hand, a scone in the other, and his morning paper under his arm. He always made sure to come in early. Not only did it make him a fixture in the office, but also it meant he had about half an hour to himself- give or take- to relax after his morning drive in. He usually spent his time skimming his paper for relevant things, wandering around on the internet, and imbibing in caffeine and sugar.

He sat himself down with a sigh and turned on his computer, skimming the front page of the paper and then looking through a few articles while his computer whined into alertness. Finally he logged on and started skimming John and Sherlock’s blogs. Sherlock’s was inactive, of course. A few comments here and there while people who just didn’t believe he was gone asked him for help or demanded he reveal himself to John. John’s blog, however, had just picked up recently and he was under fire from people declaring Sherlock a fraud. One person who was being supportive, however, was named Mary and John had been absolutely mute on who she was. From what he read, however, they were more than just online acquaintances; Lestrade was more than a bit relieved since the man had been devastated for quite some time.

Sally stormed in with her usual scowl and Lestrade sighed as his day began in earnest.

XXX

“So, tell me the truth, Myc,” Lestrade smiled as he poured his lover a drink, “Who’s this Mary broad?”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Mycroft replied, “I’m aware of several Mary’s. Mary who? Or is her last name actually- unfortunately- Broad.”

“Hell if I know. The one on John’s blog.”

Mycroft lowered his drink and raised an eyebrow, “John’s blog? I never frequent it. So juvenile. If I want to know what is on the doctor’s mind I’ll just pop by and deduce it.”

“Yeah, well then why don’t you know about Mary?” Lestrade asked with a raise of his own eyebrow.

Mycroft sighed and pulled up the blog on his tablet. A moment later he sat up in alarm and his fingers flew across the screen.

“What is it?”

“The wording style, the frequency of the comments, this ‘Mary’ is posting under two names.”  
“The other being?”

“The Improbable One.”

“I thought… I’d always thought that was Sherlock.”

“It isn’t.”

“Or Moriarty.”

“An astute guess, but both are dead.”

“We both know Sherlock isn’t,” Lestrade replied with a sigh. Mycroft didn’t acknowledge him. He never did.

“This is a problem,” Mycroft sighed, running a hand over his lips in a sign of worry, “This woman is stalking John.”

“What? No,” Lestrade all but dropped his drink, hurrying over to look at the collection of comments Mycroft had isolated, “You think it’s serious?”

“Stalkers are often too cowardly to take action, but it couldn’t hurt to make sure he’s aware.”

XXX

Lestrade opened the door for Mycroft once he’d gotten the shout to enter. John was pacing the sitting room, his face tense with anxiety. He glanced at Mycroft and Lestrade and motioned for them to take a seat.

“You told him already?” Lestrade asked Mycroft.

“Not a word,” Mycroft replied, and then froze in the act of sitting down and straightened up with a look of shock on his face.

Lestrade looked towards the set of chairs, one of which had been carefully kept clean- and unoccupied- for three years.

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in it, holding a blood-soaked flannel over his nose and glaring at John.

“I suppose The Woman would have something to say about you having hit me in my nose this time,” Sherlock snarked.

Lestrade fainted.


	2. Chapter 2

“I knew it,” Lestrade stated, accepting the glass of water from John and leaning heavily on Mycroft, “I knew it, so why am I so fucking shocked? I mean, I guess I didn’t know it, but I suspected it.”

Sherlock snorted, “And as usual decided not to bother gathering actual evidence to back up your theory. Your instincts are in the right place but not your brain.”

“Why did I miss him again?” Lestrade asked Mycroft with a scowl. Mycroft smirked.

“Perhaps we should explain why we’re here,” Mycroft decided, “John, you have a stalker on your blog.”

“What, Mary? She’s harmless,” John shrugged, “She approached me in the park once: pretty blonde thing, shorter than I am.”

“Stalkers are dangerous, John,” Lestrade scolded, “And you should know full well not to disillusion yourself based on size. I’ve been on the force for decades, John. Trust me when I tell you she’s a problem. At the very least she’s mentally unstable and needs help, at the worse she could make your life a living hell.”

“I’ve got bigger problems than a young woman with a crush!” John snapped, “Did you not notice the gigantic white elephant in the room?”

“Leave insulting my brother to me, John,” Sherlock scolded, his eyes shut and his head relaxed back as he sagged in his chair.

“I meant you, you bastard!” John snapped, “I mourned you! I fucking cried! Do you know how many times in my life I’ve actually cried? Real tears?!”

“I’d put the rough estimate at three based on your persona…” Sherlock started, but John cut him off.

“Three times, Sherlock! The day my mother died, the day I was shot and left to swelter in the desert for three hours before help came, and the day you faked your fucking death!”

“Am I that important to you? Why?” Sherlock asked, giving John a sharp look, “You knew me for eighteen months before I ‘died’. Comparably you knew your mother for 24.666…”  
“Sherlock!” John shouted angrily.

“John!” Sherlock shouted back.

John threw his arms up into the air and stormed off to his room, stomping up the stairs and slamming the door.

“John!” Sherlock whine/shouted, “My nose hurts!”

There was a moment of silence and then the door opened and John shouted back, “White bottle in the bathroom cabinet, blue label. Take two.”

“I need a drink to swallow them down.”

“Kitchen.”

“Jooooohn. My nose huuuuurts.”

“Oh for gods’ sake!” John stomped down the stairs and into the bathroom.

“We should go,” Mycroft whispered, giving his brother an odd look, “I think they’ll need privacy.”

“Why? What do you know?” Lestrade asked.

“My brother’s feelings,” Mycroft whispered back, and then spoke so low that Lestrade almost missed it, “What little he has.”

XXX

John was devastated and elated all at once, a rather dizzying set of emotions. He had wanted Sherlock’s death to be a nightmare, but now that it had been proven to be a farce he was angry and hurt. He understood on a cerebral level why Sherlock had done what he’d done, but he still felt abandoned and ill-used. Now he was going about taking care of the man, much as he always had, and the only difference was that he was angrily slamming things down.

“Spare the teacups, will you?”

“Fuck you!”

“Well, not in the den, John. Honestly.”

John put Sherlock’s tea in front of him and leaned over him to examine his nose. The man must have been through quite the ordeal during his three years absence, because he drew in his breathe and twitched. John recognized the motion, as he’d had it for quite some time after returning home from war.

“Easy, Sherlock,” John soothed, “Just making sure it isn’t broken.”

“It’s fine. Back off.”

“I won’t hit you again. I’m sorry,” John replied, giving the paranoid man space, “I was out of line.”

“It’s… fine. It’s all fine.”

John smiled softly, recalling his fumbled conversation with Sherlock the second time they’d met. 

“I know it’s fine, but it needed saying. I am glad you’re back, and I’m glad you told me first. I’m surprised you slipped past Mycroft, though.”

Sherlock snorted, “He’s stopped monitoring you the way he used to. Sloppy of him, really. I think he just expected us to stop being friends once I returned.”

“Well, he should have a bit more faith,” John replied with a grin.

Sherlock smiled softly, “Like you? I saw the blog. You never doubted me.”

“Like I said before: no one could fake being that much of an annoying dick all the time.”

“I always meant to ask, did you mean that to have a double meaning?”

John snorted, “Yeah, pun intended, Dick Sherlock.”

“I think I prefer boffin.”

They both laughed a bit and the atmosphere relaxed, “I’m glad you’re back.”

“You’re repeating yourself.”

“Well, it needed saying twice.”

“Did it?” Sherlock asked, and gave John such an intense look that he sighed in frustration.

“What now, Sherlock?”

“Sorry?” Sherlock asked, looking confused.

“You gave me that ‘deduction’ look, so what was it? What did I say, do, or wear to make you observe something and what did you deduce about it?”

Sherlock studied John in silence for a moment and then gave him a very fake smile, “Just that you sincerely missed me.”

“Yeah, don’t push it. Wanker,” John left Sherlock to nurse his tea and headed upstairs to bed.

XXX

Sherlock grinned at the morning paper. He’d had a bit of fun by visiting one Kitty Riley and handing her proof of his innocence, her idiocy, and how she could make him not destroy her life. Namely, by printing a retraction that also stated how fantastic and brilliant he was; the last part was really for John, as he’d had to endure so much hatred at the hands of people who thought him a fool for continuing to believe in Sherlock. As it was, Sherlock was lucky he was the first to read it as he’d somehow slept in that morning. Doubtless it was all the anxiety from the night before, not to mention being back in his own bed after years away. Bless Mrs. Hudson for keeping everything and actually dusting it! Satisfied that Riley had gotten most of it correct (her grammar needed work) Sherlock took the stairs two at a time to bang on John’s door.

“John! Come and see what I’ve done!” Sherlock crowed. 

That shout usually brought John running at top speed, with either a gun or a fire extinguisher in hand depending on their location or the contents of the latest case. In this case it brought… silence?

“John? Are you still mad? I’m not apologizing again, but I will buy you lunch if you like. John?”

Sherlock turned his doorknob and felt his skin go cold. John always locked his door. Always. Even knowing Sherlock could pick it faster than he could cross the room to let him in. 

Sherlock swung the door open slowly, feeling as if he were in one of those ridiculous horror movies that John favored. Sherlock’s mind rushed ahead of his emotions and analysed the scene before him.

Bed: rumpled.

Air: Smells of fog and something medicinal. Requires analysis.

Window Open: Point of Entry

Bedpost: Bloodstain, small, vertical drop.

Scratches on windowpane consistent with someone entering from outside.

No marks showing ladder was used. Need more data.

No signs of struggle.

First Theory: Subject was drugged and dragged from the room unconscious out the third story window.

Second Theory: Subject was feeling stuffy and opened window, but left early for a walk.

Third Theory: Subject had a visitor through the window and left with them willingly.

On and on it went until Sherlock decided action was required. It felt like ages, but in fact only two minutes had passed since he had stepped into the room. Sherlock walked the length of it, taking deep breaths into his sinuses, then turned quickly and hurried downstairs while holding his breath. Once there he found a box of q-tips and quickly and thoroughly swabbed both nostrils as deep as he could, cursing John for getting rid of his long swabs as he did so.* He quickly placed each q-tip into a separate baggy, labeled them, and texted Molly to have the lab ready for him.

He was halfway to the door when a though occurred to him and he pulled out his phone and called Lestrade.

“Lestrade. Send your least annoying officer and a crime scene kit. I’ll collect the samples myself. I already have some here.”

“What’s happened,” Lestrade asked, sounding a mixture of frustrated and worried.

“John’s been kidnapped,” As the words left Sherlock’s lips his emotions caught up with his brain and he sagged against the door jam, “Oh, gods, John’s been kidnapped and I don’t know where she took him!”

• If you want to know why he sniffed the air and then swabbed his nose, my best suggestion is to find the episode of Beakman’s World where he explains the point of snot and bogies in the sinuses. Not only is it hilarious and gross, but it will give you an idea of why Sherlock did what he did. Sadly, I couldn’t find it on a free site, so you’ll have to rely on Netflix or some other pay site.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hello everyone. My name is Navi. I am the embodiment of Vinny's muse. FEAR ME._  
  
If you want to know where John is you'll have to solve my clues. This is interactive, so make sure you follow the link below and comment your solution to the clues to the post you see (you do not need to go to the location, some googling and riddle solving will get you your answer).

[CLUE #1](http://ilovejohnmore.livejournal.com/582.html)


	4. Chapter 4

_Okay. So I got tired of waiting and several people got pretty close guesses so… onto the next bit!_

[ _Answer #1_ ](http://www.photograph-london.com/london-photos/photo-200600064.php) _(in a wardrobe) KJV = King James Version. 2:19=chapter and verse (you had to search to find it was Genesis… not a long search overall) 24= 24 th word = Adam (Street). Guarden requiring an oath = Covent Garden._

_Kudos to those who were close, but no one actually got this one. Try again on the next one!_

 

Sherlock stewed in the corner while Dimmock held up the box he’d located within a wardrobe. It had taken hours of searching to find the right building with the right wardrobe with a box inside it, but once found it was undeniably the clue they had been looking for. What made Sherlock absolutely _furious_ was that he hadn’t been the one to solve the riddle _or_ find the box. He’d guessed the KJV as being ‘King James Version’ easily enough, and 24 was obviously the 24 th word within the 2:19 passage, but 2:19 could have referred to any book within it. He’d started at the beginning, of course, but by the time he’d finished explaining what the riddle meant to Lestrade, Dimmock had simply opened the book, gone to Genesis, and read ‘Adam’ outloud.

“There’s an Adam Street in Covent Garden. That fits the whole clue. If that’s not the one we can just go to Exodus and so on. We just need to find a wardrobe inside one of the buildings.”

“A wardrobe?” Sherlock asked.

“The gateway to Narnia,” Dimmock, Lestrade, and Donovan all stated at once. As if he would know something so utterly _pointless._

“I suggest we start under the signs marking the street itself,” Dimmock stated, going to his computer to pull up a map.

“That sounds promising,” Lestrade stated, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock sniffed, “Obviously.”

Which brought them to a two-hour search; mostly because one of the buildings had contained an antique store that had seemed promising, but a thorough search of all of the wardrobes contained within had proven that to be too obvious of a location.

Now Dimmock carefully placed the small cardboard box- marked ‘cold goods within’- into an evidence bag. Sherlock was itching to open it, but the Yard had found it first so they were going to x-ray it rather than open it. Sherlock all but dove into the wardrobe once the others had finished their search, but he found nothing more than they did. Instead he headed over to the Yard to find out what they’d discovered inside of the box.

“Empty? Why would it be empty?” Sherlock demanded.

“It wasn’t entirely, it just showed up that way on the x-ray. Then we let some dogs sniff it and they didn’t react at all,” Dimmock explained, “Then we swabbed and dusted the outside and got no noteworthy chemical traces and no fingerprints.”

“And your opinion of a noteworthy clue should matter to me?” Sherlock snapped irritably, “What were they?”

Dimmock read off the list while Sherlock frowned and stored them away for later use. They did seem innocent… for now.

“So what _did_ the box contain?” Sherlock demanded to know.

“You’re not going to like this… a block of dry ice.”

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face- no small feat considering how pale he usually was.

“Dry ice?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything within it?”

“Nothing, not even a bit of pollen.”

“So John is being kept on ice,” Sherlock replied softly, “The question is, does that mean he’s already dead?”

Lestrade and Dimmock both gave Sherlock horrified looks while Donovan gave him a suspicious one. She would. She’d never fully believed his return, despite the evidence at hand.

XXX

John woke up cold and stiff from sleeping on the floor… _wait a minute. Why the hell would I be sleeping on the floor?_

John’s eyes flew open and then shut again as he swore in agony. There was a bright light situated directly over wherever the hell he was sleeping and the entire room was freezing.

John struggled upright, hissing when his bare back touched a frigid wall, and shielded his eyes to let them adjust slowly to the blinding glare. When he was finally able to open them completely he looked around himself in complete horror. He was in what appeared to be a walk in refrigerator, but there was no food inside this cold space and it had clearly been modified. It was entirely empty except for the fan above, the floor made of cement, and the walls painted a glaring white to make the light more intense. The floor- also painted white- was concrete and cold to the touch. A metal door with a breathing vent clearly in the open position- and the emergency handle clearly removed- completed his frigid prison. A glance down confirmed what John already had suspected- he was completely starkers.

John was shaking with the cold, but he shook even more when the lights abruptly went out. John gave a shout and stood up and they flashed back on. He stilled, glancing at the door and then turning sharply about despite his aching joints to see if someone had managed to get behind him.

Alone.

Alone and cold.

Alone, cold, and in pain.

Alone, cold, in pain, and _hungry_.

_And I need to piss. This couldn’t get better could it? Oh! I need to shit, too? Bloody fucking fabulous._

John decided the direct approach was the best and banged on the door, shouting angrily.

“Oi! Let me out of here! You can’t keep me in here!”

John kept that line of pointless one-sided arguments up for what felt like half an hour, mostly just because it alleviated both the chill and his feelings of helplessness. Then he met the magic phrase that would open that  door at any time, day or night, for the duration of his time there.

“Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead, and he’s going to _find you_ and…”

The door latch clicked and John stepped back, dropping into a fighting position in preparation of facing his enemy.

 _Oh my gods_ , John gaped at his captor.

“Hello, John,” A deep voice purred, “I understand you think Sherlock Holmes is coming for you. He’s not. Take comfort in the fact I’ve got the room at the perfect temperature; you won’t develop any sort of medical difficulty, but you will be kept perfectly in line. Do try to behave and I’ll give you a reprieve from time to time.”

Then he dropped a bucket with a toilet seat attached to it onto the floor in front of him and gave John a rather sadistic grin. John sagged to the floor, tears starting up in his eyes, and shivered in misery as the door shut once more. A few minutes later the lights shut off again and John stood in alarm. They flashed on once more.

 _Motion sensor_. _That’s going to wreak havoc on sleeping. Not that I can._

John shivered and began to pace the room, shaking and trying to _think_ through this all. Something was off. Why would anyone kidnap him without planning on luring Sherlock in? Why would he be locked in a room clearly designed for torture?

Why would Sherlock _do_ this to him? Was that Sherlock? Was it someone disguised as him? Did that mean Sherlock wasn’t even back, that he had been dead all along, and the disguise was just a way for John to let his abductor into his flat and go to sleep without an ounce of caution?

“I’m such a fool,” John groaned, teeth chattering miserably.


	5. Chapter 5

[Crime # 1](http://ilovejohnmore.livejournal.com/810.html)

Hello, Sherly. How disappointing. I really expected you to do better than that. Don’t you want to impress John? He’s counting on you. I’ll give you one more try and we’ll see if you are as smart as Mekare_tessen, Val_rae03, and Dimmock; but first solve a few crimes for me and MAYBE I’ll throw you a second clue.

Go to Lauriston Gardens- try not to get too nostalgic. Follow the clues to find the girl, but you’d better hurry or she’ll run out of air.

(for solution to previous clue see [HERE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/122746.html))


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock and Dimmock checked the building where Jennifer had been forced to commit suicide nearly five years ago. There was nothing. Not a damn thing. Some kids had come in and spray painted the place up, but other than that there was nothing. Sherlock quickly photographed the graffiti and rushed out the door to find his graffiti expert. Dimmock, however, walked down the street with a thoughtful look on his face. Feeling suspicious, Sherlock turned and started following him, making sure to keep from sight.

Dimmock calmly walked into a house at the end of the block and then made a rather alarmed noise. Sherlock rushed into the building in time to see the man throwing up on the ground outside of a bathroom. The bloated body of a young woman lay in the bathtub beneath a heavy grate that prevented her from climbing out. She had enough room to press her face to the grate for air, but had eventually succumbed to exhaustion and drowned. Sherlock set about looking for more clues while Dimmock called it in.

“How did you know she was here?” Sherlock questioned suspiciously.

“I didn’t,” Dimmock groaned, “I was starting at the end of the block since the first place we looked was a dud. I smelled something and headed for the bathroom first. It was a rat. A _rat_ was trying to get into the water.”

“They sometimes feed on corpses,” Sherlock shrugged, “But only if they’re fresh. We should get her to the morgue quickly. If she’s only recently dead there may be evidence on her.”

“You… you’re the most cold, cruel, unfeeling person I’ve ever met. What does someone like _John_ even see in you?” Dimmock asked in disgust.

Sherlock blinked in surprise, “He’s my flatmate and friend.”

“He’s more than that. We all know he is,” Dimmock scoffed.

“No,” Sherlock replied, feeling his heart wrench in his chest, “He’s not.”

_If only he was. I’d have been in that bed with him. No one could have taken him from my arms. No one._

Sherlock looked at the ground and frowned in confusion. There was rat poison in a square around the room. The rat in question was hiding beneath the clawed foot of the tub, looking skinny and miserable.

“This poison should have kept them away unless… that rat was planted here. That rat was _put_ or _left_ in this room, _starving_ , so that it would make enough racket to draw us in _before_ the decaying process took hold!”

Sherlock flipped his phone open and called Molly.

“Molly. Get down to the address I’m about to text to you _immediately_. Bring your kit. We have a popper on hand and she needs to be examined _immediately_ in order to find evidence on or within her person before decay sets in.”

“She can’t do that!” Dimmock argued, “It’s against regulations!”

“Bugger your regulations! John is _missing!_ ”

“I’m on my way,” Molly spoke in his ear, “Send me the address.”

Sherlock hung up and quickly texted her the address before heading over to the tub.

“I’m not letting you contaminate the scene!” Dimmock argued, pulling him away from it, “I found it first, it’s mine!”

“Touch me again and you will regret it,” Sherlock snapped, “I am going to find him!”

“Not by breaking the law yourself!” Dimmock snapped, pulling out his handcuffs.

Sherlock braced himself to fight and then thought better of it.

“Fine,” Sherlock replied, “But you only win this one because taking you down _would_ contaminate the scene.”

Sherlock stormed away and texted Molly to be there, but to follow procedure. _And hurry._ Then he began to search the hall and surrounding building for evidence. He did find a small set of footprints, but they were days old. How long had that woman been in there? Before the first clue was posted? Why?

The team arrived and Anderson pointedly avoided making eye contact with Sherlock, as he had from the first time he saw him alive. His behavior was indicative of shame, something Donovan had yet to display in regards to their perpetuating the lie that had forced him to fake his death. Sherlock didn’t care. He blamed Moriarty for their part in his downfall, not the mindless drones who had jumped on his not-so-subtle red herrings.

Once the team was done looking over the scene the body was _very_ carefully removed and taken to St. Bart’s to be looked over. Molly gave Sherlock an intense look as she passed and Sherlock nodded. Dimmock followed after and also gave him a significant look.

 _At least I can trust_ one _of them._

XXX

When Sherlock got a look at the young woman on the slab he was understandably surprised. Under five feet with platinum blonde hair, she was clearly the woman John had described as having met; but if this was ‘Mary’ than who was John’s kidnapper?

Disgruntled, Sherlock logged on to the website from his phone to find another crime posted a few seconds after he entered the domain. Frantic to get there before the police this time, Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and took off at a run. Molly shouted after him, but he ignored her in his eagerness to get to the next crime scene.

XXX

John stumbled back into his cold prison with a feeling of horror overwhelming him. He’d tried to fight off his abductor only to find they were his equal at best, and in his condition, his better. He ended up mildly injured and back in his cell after having witnessed a woman slowly drown in a tub just for having approached him in a park once! John set about frantically examining his prison. The fan above him. If he could get to it the blades might be a decent weapon, or at the very least he could jam it to stop the damn cold from coming in!

John looked up and frowned. His height was a burden at times such as these, but the grating over the fan was more like a mesh fence, if he could grab it he could haul himself up or perhaps simply pull it down with his weight. John jumped three times before he grabbed the grating and everything exploded in pain.

John had never personally experienced an electric shock, but lying on his back staring up at the fence/mesh cover of the fan it became clear what the issue was. The damn thing was electrified and now John had several burns over his fingers to contend with. Standing up and wondering if the shaking were from the shock or the cold, John set about walking the length of his prison. He _would_ escape!

“Nice try,” Sherlock’s voice spoke from behind him.

John spun about and faced his capture, who he knew by fighting skill _couldn’t_ be Sherlock. They’d tussled enough to prove that.

“Let me out, let me warm up, and we’ll see how good I can be.”

“Oh, you’ll be good. If you’re good you’ll get rewards. Rewards such as a few hours out of this and in front of a fireplace. Perhaps with some nice hot tea. Would you like that, John?”

 _More than water in a desert_ , John thought, but shook the thought off.

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, in time I’m hoping we get to that point. Until then, you’ll just have to sit back and see how much more clever than Sherlock Holmes I can be.”

The door swung shut and John rubbed at his arms in misery.


	7. Chapter 7

[ Crime #2](http://ilovejohnmore.livejournal.com/1123.html)

_What a shame, Sherly. I liked her. Were you surprised when you saw who she was? I knew you would be. I do so like to surprise you. John was surprised, too. You should have seen the shock on his face! I rather think he liked her. That actually makes killing her less upsetting for me._

_Go to the roof of St. Bart’s. Jump off… just kidding. Go to the roof of St. Bart’s to find and free the young man waiting for you there. Maybe you can redeem yourself._


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock made it to the roof just in time to pull down the man hanging from the thick PVC pipe gallows. He was stark naked and hooded. For a moment Sherlock feared it was John since he also had a shoulder wound, but the second the hood was removed he saw the purpled face was a stranger. Sherlock performed CPR while directing his phone to voice-call 911. A set of nurses came up just as he got the poor man breathing again.

“Where’s John?” Sherlock demanded as they loaded him onto a gurney, “Where is he? Who has him? A man? A woman? Who?!”

“John who?” The man gasped, his voice practically gone, then fainted away.

The nurses gave Sherlock a disgusted look and wheeled the man off.

XXX

Back in the morgue, Sherlock walked in to find a group of people cheering and clapping Dimmock on the shoulder.

“What’s happened?” Sherlock demanded, “Has he finally admitted his penchant for wearing women’s knickers?”

Dimmock glared at Sherlock, who shrugged his shoulders shamelessly.

“Actually, I just identified this body,” Dimmock replied proudly, “And found out why she was targeted.”

“Mary,” Sherlock stated.

“Oh?” Dimmock asked, “Mary who?”

“Mary The Not-So Improbable One,” Sherlock shrugged, “She was hired or forced to approach John and give him a false sense of security by pretending to be his stalker.”

“Morstan,” Dimmock explained as if he hadn’t heard Sherlock, “She’s part of John’s fan group. Molly found her business card in her stomach and I looked her up. She leads the Watson’s Wenches Munch here in London and has been ticketed twice for littering… while rooting through John’s trash. He paid her last fine.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “Someone may want to go upstairs to A&E and search the person of the man whose life I just saved. He may also have a clue as to his identity on him, but he passed out before I could properly question him. I’m willing to bet he was _also_ a John Watson fan, especially considering his hair was died and cut in a similar fashion.”

“I’ll get right on it. Thanks, _Sherly_ ,” Dimmock grinned, and passed him with a smile and a clap on his shoulder.

The room erupted in laughter and it took everything he had not to turn around and tackle Dimmock to the floor. Instead he set about plotting how he would isolate the new star detective so he could figure out if he was the ‘real’ Dimmock (he appeared to be, but Sherlock didn’t think he could trust his senses at this point). Whether he was or wasn’t, Sherlock was now convinced he was the one who had John ‘on ice’ someplace. He just had to figure out _where_ and get his blogger back!

Sherlock followed Dimmock for two more days but never managed to get him alone. He also saw no improvement of his handling on other cases and so far all leads had simply gone dry. The man also proved to be a leader in a fan based group in London; this one named ‘Watson Is So Gay’! (insert rainbow logo here). He confessed to having met John once while walking in the park, but swore he’d never stalked the man; their meeting had been a coincidence. Sherlock decided he was being honest. He had nothing in or on his person that would be another clue.


	9. Chapter 9

[Clue #2](http://ilovejohnmore.livejournal.com/1339.html)

Oh, very well. Well done. I’ll give you that one. On to your second clue.

This Hotel belongs in Wonderland,  
In The Doctor’s Room you’ll find his hand  
Who, you ask, do you mean John?  
No, I mean The Doctor who will soon be gone.

For those of you who are a bit lost, all locations will be in LONDON, so start your search there. You can also respond to my [tumblr](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/eychloii) and [facebook](https://www.facebook.com/vinny.meoblinn).


	10. Chapter 10

An extra warning in this chapter: not sure if this counts as ‘mutilation’ or not so I haven’t added the warning, but it is definitely blood & gore. There’s kinda a severed hand in this chapter. I won’t describe it, but it will be obvious what happened.

Sherlock opened the door and stared in horror at the scene before him. It was no wonder Dimmock hadn’t been on hand to solve the clue this time. The bloodied hand on the bed was clearly his; between two fingers rested a [picture](http://eychloii.tumblr.com/private/69512716595/tumblr_mxk3zihpxe1s7yz50) that made Sherlock’s heart pound. It was John, nearly naked and posed on a bed with rose petals decorating him. He was alive but pale; his face clearly forced into a sultry smile. Bags beneath his eyes echoed the note written in his handwriting at the bottom corner.

_I’m so tired._

Nearby was Dimmock’s cell phone. Sherlock guessed the password in one go and brought up recent text messages. As he’d suspected. Dimmock was being sent the answers to the riddles! The glory hound hadn’t figured out a thing on his own and, worse, he hadn’t told anyone of his link to the kidnapper!

_Well, he’ll likely pay for it with his life, if he hasn’t already._

Sherlock examined the hand; sadly it had been cut off post mortem.

“Rest in peace, Dimmock,” Sherlock sighed, “I suppose that’s what you get for trying to top me, but I’d rather it hadn’t ended like this.”

Then he called it in with as gentle a tone as he could muster. The Yard had just lost one of their own and even _Sherlock_ knew that required careful handling.

 _If John were here he’d handle it for me_ , Sherlock thought with a note of longing. He missed the man. He also hated that the most revealing picture he had of the man he loved was one he was forced to have taken by a mad person who was holding him hostage. _I’ll find you. I will. Then I’ll keep you safe forever._

XXX

John was hauled out of the walk-in and wrapped in a blanket by a terrified looking Dimmock. Beside him was the Sherlock-Look-Alike whom John was quickly beginning to despise. He’d already been forced to watch that beautiful young woman- Mary- drown in a tub because of this tosser. What now?

“We’re going to get out of this, John,” Dimmock whispered, “Everyone already suspects Sherlock. It won’t be long.”

“It’s not him,” John replied.

Dimmock paled but nodded, “I have to… I have to cuff you now.”

“Yeah,” John replied miserably, “I know.”

Mary had been made to cuff him, too. They’d been used as hostages against each other, each being threatened until the other was cowed into complacency. John didn’t fight the handcuffs being placed around his wrists. He didn’t want to ruin Dimmock’s last moments alive by being a burden as well, especially now that he was so sickly and weak that escape would be beyond him even if he were shown to an open door and told to go. _I’d just lay down in the doorway and sleep._

After so long in a cold, hard, occasionally _bright_ prison, John was in constant pain and stiff to the point of walking with a shuffle. His only relief from the tedium was a monitor that had been placed in his ‘cell’ with him. He could turn it off or leave it on, but he’d come to watch it constantly as it’s dim glow relieved his eyes a bit when the lights flashed back on. On that screen Sherlock was a marionette for his captor, dancing to his music as he manipulated the man from one end of London to another.

John was now certain that they weren’t the same Sherlock, though at first he’d theorized that the consulting detective had gone off his rocker and had somehow developed Dissociative Identity Disorder. He could see the differences between them, mostly when the fake one had his shirt off during the rare occasions when he took John out and tried to flirt with him. Sherlock had moles. Lots of them. John had looked them over once to make sure none were precancerous. Also, he had spent a rather alarming amount of time staring up at Sherlock’s face; this man was at least a centimeter shorter, John was positive on that point. Then there was the more obvious give-away. The man had on occasion slipped up and used a voice that was in a higher register, and when he had it had sounded _familiar._ John just couldn’t place who it was.

Sleep was nearly impossible, so when John was led to a hotel and told to stretch out on a bed he did so without an ounce of hesitation. _Go ahead. Do whatever you want to me. Don’t care anymore._ Instead, he was decorated and told to give the camera a flirty smile.

“You’ve been so good, John,” Sherlock-Look-Alike told him, “I’m going to give you a reward. You can sleep here, in this bed, for one hour.”

John stopped himself right before he thanked the bastard. This was just more torture, more ways to make him confused. He nodded instead, allowed Dimmock to re-cuff him, gave the man a sad smile, and curled up under the covers. He woke once to the sound of screaming, but then rolled over and went back to sleep. He’d mourn Dimmock if and when he got out of this mess.

XXX

“Bad news,” Sherlock sighed as Lestrade stepped into the room. He was on the case now, as no one would actually have a clear head after Dimmock’s death.

“More?”

“John is being tortured,” Sherlock stated, handing Lestrade the picture.

“He looks okay to me,” Lestrade said, squinting at the picture.

“It isn’t physical, well not completely. His skin is showing signs of being exposed to cold for too long, which explains the ice reference.”

“Repeated freezing?” Lestrade asked in horror.

“Possibly, or being kept in a room that is far, far too cold. Also, he is being sleep deprived and if you look closely you can see one of his pupils are dilated more than the other indicating…”

“You’re making this up!”

“Indicating that he’s been given light torture. He probably has a constant migraine headache at this point, is exhausted to the point of distress, and is in constant pain from the cold. Too much more of this could cause heart strain, possibly even a heart attack or stroke. Most definitely hypertension.”

“Okay, so how long before the effects of his torture- the physical effects- are permanent?”

“It depends on his health before hand. Very young and healthy men have been known to die from otherwise non-fatal forms of torture. Eventually the body becomes too strained to continue.”

“Not John,” Lestrade argued, “Not him. He’s been through too much to just break.”

“I think you may have it backwards,” Sherlock sighed, “This might just be the last straw for him.”


	11. Chapter 11

[Answer #2](http://ilovejohnmore.livejournal.com/1602.html)

_Bravo Catthecrazy, for solving my riddle so quickly. It's a shame Sherly doesn't have you helping him instead of... oh, what was his name? I've forgotten. Doesn't matter... not anymore._  
  
For those of you still in the dark, here is the answer to my wicked lark.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock frowned in annoyance at the post on the John-nappers blog. _He’d_ solved the riddle in record time! The person was ignoring him for some reason, making him look like a fool by giving Dimmock answers.

_Making me dance, just like Moriarty did. He’s dead, though. I made sure of it. So who is this? Someone connected to Moriarty? Someone from my past? From John’s past?_

Sherlock smirked.

_The game is ON._

Sherlock hopped on his laptop and tore through every hack he knew before leaning back to smile wickedly at the screen.

 

_Hello Copycat Criminal,_  
  
I’ve hijacked your blog. You did an admirable job covering your trail to avoid me finding you based on that little fact alone, but enough is enough. You have done a charming job keeping me running around London looking for clues, but I haven’t had a chance to inform you about what I have deduced about you.  
Observation 1: You are a copycat. Your style imitates Moriarty and The Woman. I wouldn’t be shocked if you had altered your appearance as well.  
Observation 2: You are a fan. You aren’t just a fan of John, you are a fan of _me_ as well. I’m flattered, but my website and methods were not meant for the use you are putting them to.  
Observation 3: You are keeping John in a walk-in cooler. What you don’t realize, due to your own stupidity and a lack of medical training, is that prolongued exposure at even _safe_ temperatures just this side of extreme can weaken a person. Remove him before he becomes fatally ill.  
Observation 4: You fancy yourself able to win him over. Wrong.  
Observation 5: I. Will. Find. You.  
Observation 6: When I do you had better hope there are witnesses and that they are willing to stop me from exacting my revenge.  
  
Sincerely,  
Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective

(If you are late to the game, the board has just changed. Follow [this link](http://eychloii.tumblr.com/private/69612893138/tumblr_mxlwquACXc1s7yz50) to see what Sherlock did if the [criminal's blog](http://ilovejohnmore.livejournal.com/) has already been changed back.)


	13. Chapter 13

A/N Don’t worry. John’s not turning into wimpy John. He’s just suffering pretty badly, as you’ll see in this chapter.

Sherlock was more than a little surprised that the Copycat Criminal left things with just a token argument on his/her blog. Instead, days passed in which literally _nothing_ happened. He continued to search for other clues throughout the internet and re-examined the previous scenes, but as he’d suspected there was no new information. The madman/woman had simply… disappeared.

XXX

John groaned when the door to his prison opened, triggering the lights to flood on.

“Go away. I was finally getting a bit of sleep,” John growled.

“Come out of there.”

“Fuck you.”

“Later. Come out and get warm.”

John didn’t need much incentive besides that so he crawled out of his prison on hands and knees that sparked with pain as though needles were stabbing him. He was beyond shame at this point. The freezer opened into a room that John had constantly questioned the existence of. It was a warm looking den, decorated as a hunting lodge with a large fireplace. He’d once tried to rip a deer head off the wall to use it as a weapon only to find everything in the place was glued down. Everything. Including the fucking mug of ceramic hot chocolate that created fake steam (fog machine?) when you poured water into the top of it. The bastard had demonstrated while laughing after John had tried to sneak a sip during one of his brief reprieves.

John crawled across the plush carpet and collapsed in front of the fireplace, shaking miserably while curled up on the bearskin rug. The bastard turned and left for several minutes before returning with a medical kit in one hand and a balanced tray in the other. The tray was full of food. _Hot food!_

“We’re onto the second phase of our game, John,” Fake Sherlock informed him, “You’re broken now, so I will rebuild you the way _your_ Sherlock did. I have no medical degree, so you’ll have to examine yourself, but I will assist you as needed. First, however, I think a hot meal will do you some good.”

John nodded and slowly began to eat the food, hissing as his chilled fingers touched the hot food until the bastard decided to feed him instead. John felt a small twinge of shame at eating from his fingers, especially knowing what he was trying to do. Stockholm Syndrome was a well-known issue to John who had seen many kidnapped victims during his time with Real Sherlock. He refused to succumb, but deep down he knew this was just one step closer.

“Very good, John,” The man whispered, reaching out with his other hand to run it through John’s unkept hair, “I think a shower is in order, don’t you?”

John blinked. He hadn’t been offered a shower in his entire time here. He nodded, but thinking ahead he knew why it was being suggested. Not just because he probably smelled, but also because he would require assistance to judge the temperature of the water; possibly even to wash him since his joints were so stiff.

John was led to one of the three doors that had always been locked to him and shown that it was open.

“These will be your rooms from now on. Only one of the doors is locked now,” Fake Sherlock explained, and helped him into the shower once the temperature was just right. Thankfully he left after that.

John hissed as the water came down on him, burning his sensitive and cracked skin. He had been sleeping sitting up on the cold floor in order to curl up and tuck his hands against his groin; this had saved his genitals and hands from some of the worst effects of lying on a cold floor, but his arse, feet, and part of his back had (hopefully minor) cold burns on them from the prolonged contact. This was now burning to the extent that eventually John couldn’t keep silent and started moaning and then screaming from the pain.

Fake Sherlock rushed in, a look of genuine concern on his face, and threw open the curtains. John hissed at the onslaught of cold air, but only because it was a bit of a relief from the sting of the hot water. He knew he was a shaking, sniveling mess, but there was nothing he could do aside from plot how he could get his strength back and overcome the bastard.

“What happened? Why are you screaming?”

“Burns!” John choked out, and Fake Sherlock shut off the water.

“It didn’t feel that hot to me. Why didn’t you just adjust the heat?”

John’s teeth were chattering again, and as the room swam around him he realized in horror that he was going into shock. John sank down to the floor of the tub, groaning in misery, and wished fervently for someone he could trust. _Anyone_ who could help him recover enough to take the bastard down.

XXXXXXXXXX

John regained consciousness sometime later with gauze everywhere and a worried Mike Stamford standing over him. He was in a _very_ soft bed that eased his aching limbs, he was _warm_ , and he was wearing _clothes_ again.

“Hello, John,” Mike stated softly, touching his head gently in a surprisingly tender gesture.

“Don’t touch him!” Snapped Fake Sherlock, “Don’t undermine me or I’ll kill you where you stand. Get him together.”

Stamford nodded towards the figure John could barely seen in the corner of the comfortable deep blue bedroom he’d been situated in. Stamford pulled the bottom of the heavy blankets up and began to unwrap John’s feet.

“Going to lose anything?” John asked, his voice hoarse.

“Can you get him some water?” Stamford asked Fake Sherlock, who nodded and fetched some from the bathroom, never going far enough to take Stamford out of his sight.

“Mike?” John asked, putting worry into it as Fake Sherlock returned with a plastic cup of water.

“I’m not sure yet,” Mike replied softly, “It’s not so bad on your back or bum, but your feet have blisters. That’s never a good sign.”

John nodded miserably and forced himself to think the unspoken word. _Frostbite_.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered.

“For what?” Mike asked, giving him a concerned look.

“For getting you killed.”

Mike looked alarmed for a moment, glancing towards Fake Sherlock- who raised an imperious eyebrow at him- and then gave John a sad smile.

“It’s not your fault, John. Don’t ever think it is.”

“Are you _done_ yet?” Fake Sherlock snapped.

“Not quite,” Stamford stated, “He’s going to need these changed regularly and cream applied until the blisters heal. If they don’t he’ll need these three… and these two… toes amputated. He might lose some skin on the bottom of his foot as well, but I have high hopes that will heal up with treatment. If gangrene sets in he needs to be in a hospital. He’ll die otherwise.”

“Then make sure it doesn’t or you’ll _both_ die.”

“I’m so tired,” John whispered, not even aware he was speaking.

“Go to sleep, John,” Fake Sherlock advised, petting his hair, “Just rest. I’ll take care of you.”

_No. You won’t. I’m not falling for that shit._

“M’kay,” John sighed, and let himself drift.

When he woke up again his full bladder told him that a great deal of time had passed. Mike was gone.

XXX


	14. Chapter 14

[Clue #3](http://ilovejohnmore.livejournal.com/2141.html)

_Sorry for the sudden change in management, Watsoneers. I'm back in charge and we'll be having a bit of fun today._  
  
Sherly, your dear friend Stamford may run out of air if you don't find him fast... although it is VERY possible someone else will find him first. Let's see who has the better luck, me or him? Here's your clue:  
  
A wall of dead, forever cold and trapped.  
"Here is a man in whom there is no deception"


	15. Chapter 15

Virtual Cookies to Catthecrazy for once again solving a riddle first! St. Bartholomew’s morgue was the answer.

“Obvious,” Sherlock muttered to himself, and then shot off a text to Molly and an intern he knew at the hospital. A moment later Molly responded.

**He’s alive, but a bit out of sorts. Admitting him now. – Molly H.**

Sherlock stepped into the hospital room and breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t quite believed it when he’d found out that Stamford had survived, but seeing him was a relief. Sadly, he carried very little good news.

“He’s trying to brainwash him. John was weak when I saw him, frostbitten and sleep deprived. He was in a significant amount of pain. I did what I could to ease it, but he may still develop gangrene if he doesn’t get rescued soon,” Stamford stated, not bothering with formalities, “He looks like you, Sherlock; your spitting image. It was damned creepy. If I didn’t know you wouldn’t do such a thing...”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, “But this explains _everything!_ ”

“You know where John is, then? I was blindfolded, I saw nothing.”

“Not quite, but I have a _very_ good idea.”

A/N I couldn’t kill Mike off. I love him too much.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sadly, the factory was devoid of John, but it did contain a set of rooms and the walk-in freezer that he’d been being kept in.

“You were right, Sherlock,” Lestrade stated, looking around himself at the rather comfortable looking ‘hunting lodge’ created inside the factory, “He kept him in the same place those kids were kept in right before…”

Lestrade looked away guiltily. He still hated that he had been a part of Sherlock’s downfall, even if Moriarty were really to blame.

“It explains the reaction of the children,” Sherlock stated, “I’d always wondered how he’d done that bit, made the girl scream when she saw me. Oh, I had _theories_ , of course. Plenty of theories, but no concrete _evidence_.”

“So he’s one of Moriarty’s men who you missed when you were off dealing with them,” Lestrade replied darkly, “We’ll get him alive and interrogate him. Make sure there aren’t any others.”

“That’s just fine, but this isn’t _about_ Moriarty. He isn’t doing this because I got his boss to kill himself. He’s doing this for _personal_ reasons.”

“You still think he’s a Watson’s Wench?”

“A what?” Sherlock asked, blinking in surprise at the statement.

“Watson’s Wenches. It’s what John’s fans are called- well not all of them. You knew that.”

Sherlock shrugged. He’d probably deleted it. Instead, Sherlock joined Anderson in searching for evidence. The refrigeration unit was _covered_ in John- his hair, his attempts at escape, his marking time on the wall with a broken toilet seat lid. It even smelled slightly of him, and Sherlock breathed it in with his eyes closed, drawing up an image of the man in his mind and holding it there as if that could preserve his life. An off smell reached his nostrils and he glanced up.

“Don’t touch the grating on the fan above you,” Sherlock informed Anderson, “It’s electrified.”

“It’s what? How could you possibly… hey! Get back here!” Anderson snapped, but Sherlock ignored him.

Sherlock headed back out to tell them to turn off the power to the room, but was stopped in his tracks by Sally Donovan. Donovan was staggering towards them with a wound to her head, blood dripping down into her eyes.

“He took Lestrade!” She screamed, pointing at Sherlock, “You bastard! You’ve been playing us all along!”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, but he didn’t fight the men swarming forward to slap handcuffs on him. It would be easier to escape later, when grieving coppers didn’t surround him from all sides.

He just hoped he did so in time to rescue Lestrade.


	16. Chapter 16

Thankfully, an alibi was so easily established for Sherlock that he didn’t even have a chance to escape (boring) before they were removing his cuffs and looking about themselves helplessly now that they were _two_ leaders short.

“He’s getting bold to attempt an abduction amidst a gaggle of coppers! Donovan,” Sherlock barked, “How good a look did you get at him? Was it make-up? A look alike? Or a surgical facsimile?”

“I only saw him a moment before he hit me with a tire iron,” Sally replied, they were waiting on an ambulance to take her to A&E for her head. She was feeling ill and had already been sick once. She likely had a concussion.

Sherlock checked the blog but saw no post from their abductor. Glee rushed through him. That could mean only one thing!

“Spread out!” Sherlock shouted, “Search everywhere! He’s still here _and he has John and Lestrade with him!_ ”

Pandemonium. Sherlock shouted out orders to organize the overzealous PC’s as they ran helter-skelter in an attempt to find their DI as quickly as possible. Sherlock himself took the most likely route, searching for a map of the building first (you are here => emergency exit is here <=) and found the directions to the subbasement. Once down there he pulled up a grate and dropped into the sewer. Luckily, with the plant closed down for so long the tunnel was mostly dry and merely smelled of earth. If they turned off somewhere, however, they wouldn’t be so lucky.

Of course, there was no way the overconfident assailant was getting that far with both John _and_ Lestrade in tow. Sherlock walked a few paces and nearly tripped over someone, shining his mobile down with hope making his heart clench, he was horrified to see Lestrade laying still on the ground.

 _He decided to get rid of the dead weight?_ Sherlock crouched down, blackening the mobile and glancing around in concern that he’d made a target of himself, but the tunnel was completely deserted. He felt Lestrade’s neck and found a pulse just as the man groaned miserably.

“I’ll get help,” Sherlock whispered, once more shining his mobile around to see the signs of a fight he’d expected, then he hurried to the surface once more.

There was no way the Copycat had continued down that tunnel. Not with a swarm of cops behind him. Once he realized he would have to leave Lestrade behind he would have backtracked and found another solution. Sherlock’s eyes flashed around and the second most likely outcome hit him almost as hard as the large metal piping that came flying down from above.

Sherlock rolled onto his back, shoving the piping off and ignoring the flashing of pain behind his eyes. He looked upwards, ears ringing, and saw John up above, leaning over a railing shouting at him. He was saying his name, he was certain of that, but Sherlock couldn’t hear him over the pounding of blood as his brain and heart fought consciousness. His doppelganger had an arm around John’s shoulder’s from behind, dragging him backwards as he pressed a gun to his temple. Sherlock felt a surge of fear as it occurred to him he might be forced to watch John die, but that wasn’t in the cards this time. Instead he pulled John into an office just as three police officers followed after him like madmen. Sherlock’s hearing came back full force just as gunfire started up.

“No!” Sherlock shouted, “You’ll hit John!”

A crash filled the air and dust came billowing out of the room the gunfight was happening in. Sherlock had struggled to his feet and was dragging himself up the metal stairs two at a time despite his head spinning. When he got to the entryway it was to see two officers pulling a third up from a drop. The second story of the outer wall had caved in, John and his abductor disappearing in the cloud of dust after what had to have been a shocking fall with only rubble to land on. A bit of blood on the pavement outside was their only clue, so Sherlock hurried down to deal with it only to wobble and collapse halfway there.


	17. Chapter 17

[You won't like me when I'm angry](http://ilovejohnmore.livejournal.com/2445.html)

_You're making me angry, Sherlock. Furious. First you manage to get Lestrade back- I wasn't even going to hurt him! He was a present for John! - and now you've put Mrs. Hudson in protective custody? I appreciated your attempt to lure me in by using Anderson as bait, but honestly? Not interested. Our little game is over. You lose. You lose, and the prize you've lost is one I will cherish for eternity._

Sherlock frowned at the screen. He was waiting to be released from the hospital after his overnight stay (sharing a room with _Donovan_ had been the worst part). He was told he had to wear a foam collar. Like hell he would.

So. His plan hadn’t worked. He hadn’t expected it to; it was more of a way to amuse himself while incarcerated in St. Bart’s Hospital. Now he had fewer leads to follow and that put John _just_ out of reach. As far as Sherlock was concerned, it was a gap that he never wanted between them again.


	18. Chapter 18

DAY FOUR AFTER THE COOLER

“Donovan called me to her through the com,” Lestrade explained to Sherlock in a hushed whisper, “She said she’d seen something odd and needed me to take a look. I went and when I got there a hood was thrown over my head. I fought and shouted, but was cuffed fairly quickly. I… I _swear_ there were two sets of hands. Then I heard Donovan shout out in pain, the sound of a person collapsing on the ground, and was being dragged off. I heard John’s voice. He sounded scared as hell. Kept begging someone not to hurt me. ‘Not him’, he said, ‘He’s not into me. He’s just a friend. Please don’t kill him. He’s with someone else.’ I wanted to calm him down, but I was too busy thinking of a way out. John was making lots of noises as if he were in pain- hissing and swearing and the like- and I was worried about him but still couldn’t see or move. I needed to know if he’d be on my side if I tried to take the guy out- or if he’d even _capable_ of being on my side. He told the man twice that he shouldn’t even be walking, no matter how many pain pills he’d taken. I took a chance and asked John if he was hurt, but the kidnapper punched my chest and knocked my wind out when I spoke. John swore at him and told him to leave me alone. I heard them scuffle a bit, realized John must be unbound, focused on the sound of the kidnappers voice- he sounded a lot like you, Sherlock- and charged him like we were on the Rugby field. I knocked him over and the gun went off and I felt it. I went down, more terrified that I’d be finished off at that point than anything else, and John started swearing. The kidnapper told him to leave me, that they had to change plans, but John demanded his belt or ‘you can shoot me where I stand’ he said. John put the belt around my leg and cinched it. The kidnapper dragged him off and I passed out. I guess you found me after that.”

Sherlock nodded, “Your suspicions were accurate. Tell no one what really happened. Tell them you were unconscious and being dragged the entire time, that when you came to he shot you because you struggled, but it was too dark to see anything.”

“Right,” Lestrade nodded.

Sherlock turned and hurried from the room. The tables had turned. He had to bring out his Queen or forfeit his King. With that in mind Sherlock headed into the hallway and walked quickly to the stairwell after giving Donovan a pointed glare. As he’d expected, she hesitated a moment and then followed him. Sherlock waited one stairwell down while she hurried after him. The second she rounded the corner he hit stabbed her arm with a syringe full of sedative.

“Sorry,” Sherlock told her staggering form as he cuffed her quickly, “Normally I’d prefer to exchange some witty banter, but I’m in a hurry.”

 “Fucking… wanker…” Donovan slurred.

“That will have to do, I suppose,” Sherlock sighed, and tossed the woman into a fireman’s carry to hurry down to the lower level. He paused to text Molly who met him at the door with a gurney.

“Oh gods,” Molly whispered in horror.

“Shut up,” Sherlock advised, and hurried to the morgue with Molly pushing the gurney behind him.

Once inside their little sanctuary he took a quick photo of Donovan and started working.

XXX

 _Lestrade’s been shot. Lestrade’s been shot. Lestrade’s been shot_.

The words kept repeating in John’s ears even as he bandaged up his captor, cleaning up the small wound; the bullet had barely grazed him.

“You’re an excellent doctor, John,” Fake Sherlock spoke softly, petting his hair despite the fact that John shuddered in revulsion, “I’ve always thought so.”

“Always?” John asked curiously.

“Mm-hm,” The man replied, apparently not realizing his slip up.

“When did you first think that? Was it something I did in particular? Or a specific patient?”

The man smiled, that grin eerily both similar and dissimilar to Real Sherlock’s smile, “You remember the time Sherlock got knifed?”

John snorted, “Which time?”

“I only know the one. During the Adventure of the Illustrious Client.”

“Mmm,” John nodded, and then froze.

There had only been two people there when Sherlock was stabbed. John and “Porky” Johnson, a former criminal who acted as an informant- and occasional muscle- for Sherlock on cases that wouldn’t go to court but needed solving (make that retribution for the victims) despite that little fact. Sherlock had refused to go to hospital so John had taken care of him, using supplies that Sherlock had on hand to stitch him up while the stubborn genius _played the fucking violin_ to help him think up an answer. It had been the most difficult stitch job John had ever done, and he’d stitched up wiggling children in Afghanistan! He would forever respect the slim torso muscles Real Sherlock had (which Fake Sherlock did _not_ have- he was bulky and used fashionable clothing to slim himself down) as he’d never before realized just how many were used while playing an intricate piece on the violin.

 _Oh my gods, I know who he is! Or was. Porky disappeared of the radar a few months before Moriarty got serious about taking Sherlock down. He must have had surgery to change his features. Of_ course _he knows so much about me and about how Sherlock behaves! He knows us both!_

John smiled to himself as he finished his tape sutures, “Good as new, Porky.”

Fake Sherlock turned around and gave John a murderous look: “Call me that again and you’ll bleed,” He growled his voice the familiar one from old, “It’s Sherlock now. I don’t care if you call _him_ that too, but you’ll remember not to use _that name_.”

John swallowed his anger down and nodded. He was still mostly lame from his injuries, walking that day had left him in agonizing pain. Once he was alone he needed to check the blisters on his feet, but for now he was stuck playing nursemaid to this _bastard_. However, he had already promised to himself that he wasn’t going to let it go on. He was getting the fuck out of this hellhole.

John stood and limped back to the bathroom to take care of his own injuries, fuming as he did so. Tonight he was once again going to be forced to share a bed with Porky AKA Fake Sherlock. So far the man hadn’t attempted to do more than spoon him, but John suspected it was because he was a romantic. The fact remained that John hadn’t gotten off in weeks and eventually he was going to suffer a spontaneous erection, and- being naked- Porky was going to see it and think it was for him. However, the man never left him alone long enough to both tend his wounds and wank, so John had to choose the path that let him keep his feet from being amputated.

_I’ll heal up. Then I’ll kill him and get the fuck out of here._

DAY 5 AFTER THE COOLER

Their new rooms were easily recognizable to John, and frankly it was rather clever of the madman. The best way to confound Sherlock was to put something in plain sight. He’d never bloody figure it out; he was too convinced that everyone was at least _trying_ to be clever. Just like how he often thought John was home when he wasn’t.

“That son of a bitch!” Porky screamed angrily.

John looked up from the book he’d been reading with a raised eyebrow.

“Look at this, John. Look at your _precious_ Sherlock Holmes and the monster he’s becoming,” Porky growled, heading over to John with the mobile phone that he kept in a small safe so John couldn’t access it.

John took the mobile and glanced at the screen. He had to zoom in to see the writing, but when he did his stomach clenched.

 

[ _Hello Copycat,_ ](http://ilovejohnmore.livejournal.com/2665.html)

_Don’t worry. I haven’t hijacked your blog again. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve captured your accomplice. Perhaps she knows something and will tell me once persuaded. Perhaps she doesn’t_ know _she knows something, but will tell me once her memory is jogged. Either way, I have a lead that you set up for me._

_You have two options._

_1)_ _Turn yourself in, give me John, and in exchange I will turn_ myself _in to the police as well._

_2)_ _Wait for me to find you myself, at which point I will be truly angry. If you’d like to know how I treat those who hurt the people I care about, just ask John about the American and imagine how much angrier I will be in comparison to Mrs. Hudson’s cut cheek._

_Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective_

John stared at the message in horror. _He’s abducted an officer! I’ll lose him forever!_

“Message him back,” Porky growled, “but I’ll be reading what you write. Tell him to back off.”

Sherlock nodded and turned the screen to start typing on the touch keyboard.

“I’m not used to these things. I hate texting,” John muttered.

“Suck it up,” Porky growled, “I’m going to make dinner, but I’m _watching_ you. Hit send before I review it and you’ll be going hungry for a _long_ time.”

_Sherlock, it’s John. He’s letting me answer you. Pplease don’t do this. I don’t want you to go to jjail. Let Donovan go. I’ll be fine. PPS: jjust live a happy life._

_John._

John let Porky review the message and then the man hit send with a grin, “Your typing _is_ pretty awful. I bet he edited your posts on your blog for you?”

“Yeah,” John lied.

“C’mon. Let’s put all this behind us and…”

A chim went off and the man scowled as he lifted his phone to his face once more.

Fake Sherlock went scarlet with rage and wordlessly handed the mobile to John, his hands shaking with rage.

_Dearest Mr. Johnson,_

_I’ll take that as your answer, Porky. Obviously the interrogation has already begun as I’ve gotten your_ name _out of it! Shame on you. I treated you with more respect than Donovan ever did. Is this how you repay me for all the quid I handed over to keep you comfortably in your habit? I’ll be coming for you soon. Do make sure John is packed and ready to go. I do so hate delays._

_Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective_

“I’ll teach him,” Porky raged, his voice gone soft and frightening. John backed up several steps as the man headed for a closet and pulled out a plastic bucket pre-made cement. Inside the closet were piles of bricks. He’d told John that if Sherlock ever showed he was going to brick him into the closet alive like _The Cask Of Amontillado._ Now he smeared a layer of wet cement down on the doorstep and placed the first brick.

“What are you doing?” John asked in horror, glancing around at the already bricked up windows, “We’ll smother.”

“Damn straight we will,” Porky grinned, glancing over his shoulder at John with a mad grin, “We’ll die together.”

John drew back in horror, trying to think up a solution but he knew already that the door was blocked and if he started shouting he’d just get beaten. He couldn’t afford to end up _more_ injured. Instead, John sat down on the bed to eat his dinner and conserve his strength. He’d have to act tonight, or it would be too late.

DAY SIX AFTER THE COOLER

John had no idea how he had fallen asleep, but when he woke up he felt sick to his stomach and his head was as heavy as a boulder. He dragged himself upright and was discouraged to see that his captor had finished bricking up the door and was now sitting in a chair watching John sleep while nursing a cup of coffee.

“It’s freezing in here,” John shivered.

“You’re feverish,” Porky informed him.

John’s eyes widened in alarm and he twisted about until he could view the sores on his feet. He tugged the bandages off and swore: “I need to go to a hospital. Now.”

“I told you. We’re dying in here. Together. Your feet don’t matter anymore. I couldn’t make you love me so I’m not going to let you love him.”

“I don’t _love_ Sherlock. We’re just friends.”

“He loves you. He’s told me as much. You saw his posts on the website. He says he loves you _more_ than I do.”

“Okay, yeah, I saw that. It was a bit… awkward, but we’re still just friends. You don’t have to worry about anything happening between Sherlock and I because I’m not gay,” John argued. _Well… he doesn’t need to know about Uni…_

“Doesn’t matter. We’re committed now, you and I,” Porky told him coldly.

 _One of us should be committed,_ John thought to himself, but he settled for a nod instead.

John’s eyes wandered the room as covertly as possible, fully aware that his captors madness had taken a frightening new turn. He needed a weapon that he could get to easily and wield despite his injury. His feet were beyond painful, they’d gone various states of numb and agonizing. He wasn’t even sure if he’d hurt this badly when he’d been _shot_ , and the burning fever in his body was only making his head slow and muddled.

To top it all off, John was tired. Exhausted. Miserable.

_I’ll just lie down for a moment. He has to sleep eventually. I’ll catch him off guard and kill him quickly. Then I’ll get Sherlock’s attention and get free._

DAY SEVEN AFTER THE COOLER

An explosion ripped through the room, blowing bits of bricks and dust into the room. John coughed and sputtered, toppling over the edge of the bed to avoid any further blasts. He had made the right move as gunfire went off and the gurgling sound of a man dying reached his ears.

“John? John!” Sherlock shouted.

“Here!” John coughed, and Sherlock came around the bed with a look of concern on his face.

Sherlock knelt beside John, drawing him into his arms.

“I need to go to the hospital, Sherlock. My foots going gangrenous.”

“Shhh, you’re fine. I snuck antibiotics into the food he bought. You’re getting better already.”

“Oh, thank gods,” John sighed, pressing his foot to the floor and finding Sherlock was correct. The pain was gone and the room felt… warm. Very warm.

John lifted his head from the comforting scent of Sherlock’s body and looked into his eyes to find him staring at him with the intensity he usually reserved for the microscope. John wasn’t the least bit put off. In fact, he craved more of that studious look. He’d never had such attention from the brilliant man turned on him and needed _more_ of it and fast!

“Sherlock…” John started, trying frantically to think of something clever or flattering to say, but the man closed the distance and pressed their lips together.

Sherlock kisses were all consuming and John sank back onto the soft carpeting, sighing through is nose as a feeling of completion swept through him. Sherlock straddled his hips and John rolled his lazily into the man’s growing hardness.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, kissing down the soldiers neck and giving him the occasional loving nip, “I’ve waited so long.”

“Gods, I’ve been blind,” John panted as Sherlock’s fingers wrapped around his aching cock, “It’s always been you. Always. Why the hell did I fight this?”

“Hush,” Sherlock soothed, speeding up his movements as John began to pant in earnest, “We’re here now. Just let me enjoy you. I want to see the look on your face when you come for me.”

“Oh, gods, Sherlock!” John gasped.

John’s eyes flew open and everything was _wrong wrong wrong_!

Porky was behind him, pressing his (thankfully clothed) hard-on against his arse and thrusting eagerly as he stroked John off. He was panting John’s name and kissing his shoulder and John wanted to crawl out of his skin. It was credit to John’s fever that he hesitated before acting on his first instinct.

He reached down and broke Porky’s wrist.

Porky rolled over, screaming and clutching at his wrist. Just that quickly all of John’s feelings of helplessness and fear washed away. He pounced on the man, sitting on his waist and punching him sharply to break his nose. He then snatched up a pillow and pressed it against he man’s face, ignoring his failing and clawing as he focused on snuffing the life out of his captor. Long after the struggling stopped John kept pushing at his head until the rage finally drained out of him.

John crawled off, carefully lowering himself to the floor, and crawling towards the doorway. He opened the door and examined the cement. It was dry. He must have been sleeping for ages. John struggled to the safe, but it was locked as he’d feared- the phone and gun contained therein. He tried to figure out the combination and then tried to pick the cement out from between the bricks with the back of a metal spatula.

When that failed he remembered his plan to hit the pipes to get Sherlock’s attention in the flats upstairs. Unfortunately he couldn’t reach any of the pipes because he literally couldn’t put weight on his feet.

Then a voice spoke behind him.

“You’ll never get out, John.”

John twisted about and stared at the bed in horror. He could just see it through the open door between bedroom and sitting room. Porky’s altered face was peering out from beneath the pillow, a bloody grin making him look more like his old self than Real Sherlock. John scrambled backwards against the wall beside the door, fear muting his pain as the man sat up in bed, his head lolling grotesquely to one side.

“Did you think I was dead?” Porky asked, “I can’t die. No one can. How do you think Sherlock survived? It’s only _you_ who can die, and soon you’ll be dead and gone. Forgotten. Even your precious blog will cease to exist.”

John was hyperventilating as the figure slumped back down, his laughter echoing about 221C.

I’m hallucinating,” John whispered to himself, “It’s the fever. I need to bring it down. I need antibiotics. I need _Sherlock_.”

John dragged himself back to the safe and started doing _everything_ he could to get it open, even beating it against the brick wall blocking the doorway. Except the godsbedamned _room_ wouldn’t stop spinning and he ended up dropping it onto the floor behind him. John turned around to find the lock had broken open on the hard cement floor. John pried the phone and gun out of the half open door and looked up in terror at the sight of Porky leaning against the doorway. John screamed, slamming his back against the brick and fired the gun at the hallucination, which obligingly disappeared. John fumbled with the phone, dialing it three times before he managed Sherlock’s phone number.

“Hello, Porky,” Sherlock growled, “Ready to concede my blogger to me.”

“Porky’s dead. I think Porky’s dead. Oh, gods, I _hope_ Porky’s dead,” John babbled helplessly.

“Where are you? Are you _hurt_?”

“Yes. No. I’m sick. Sherlock, I’m losing my mind,” John choked out.

“ _Where. Are. You?_ ”

“221C.”

“ _Baker Street?!”_

“Yeah.”

“Of all the obscenely obvious…!” The line cut out and John leaned against the wall.

He could very faintly hear Sherlock shouting from the other side of the wall, followed by Mrs. Hudson’s shrill shrieks. He closed his eyes a moment, but when he opened them Porky was an inch from his face and he screamed and flailed in terror before crawling off to the bathroom and locking himself inside. John clamored into the bathtub and turned the shower on cold, desperate to bring down his fever. He couldn’t hear Sherlock anymore, but he was certain the detective would stop at nothing to rescue him.

 _Unless he isn’t real. Unless none of this is real. Unless I’m not in 221C at all. Unless I’m still in the cooler, going slowly insane and_ imagining _everything that’s been happening around me. Or if it goes back further than that. Maybe Sherlock never came back from the dead. Maybe I’m just a broken man who lost his one chance at love when his best friend jumped off the roof of a building in front of him._

The doorknob turned and swung open and for a moment John stared in horror at Porky’s bloody, gunshot riddled corpse, before Sherlock stepped forward and the hallucination ended.

“John,” Sherlock spoke softly.

John raised his gun, shaking, terrified, and uncertain…


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock had returned home with an angry Donovan in tow, refusing to release the woman until he showed her what she’d done to John by helping Porky abduct John and her superior. He had her cuffed to his arm and was keeping her quiet via a threat that he’d kill her before she could speak. She probably was more terrified of his sincerity than he was. He was, really and truly, prepared to kill for John- though not Donovan. She was just an idiot who had thought this was a proper vengeance and then had got caught up and not known how to get back out. She honestly hadn’t known that Porky was _dangerous_ to John and others, and then she’d been terrified of him and let herself be used. Sherlock was now forcing her to face her mistake.

He got inside the flat and unchained Donovan from his wrist, scowling at her as she rubbed her wrist.

“John’s really hurt, then?” She asked nervously.

“He’s past hurt. His _life_ is in danger,” Sherlock snapped.

“He was just limping. He told me he’d twisted his ankle,” Donovan argued weakly.

“Stop making excuses!” Sherlock shouted at her angrily, “John is…”

Sherlock’s phone went off and he scrambled for it. Porky’s number. It was familiar, but for very different reasons.

“Hello, Porky,” Sherlock snarled into the phone.

John’s voice echoed back to him, his words slurred and filled with terror that didn’t fit the man Sherlock knew and admired.

“ _Where. Are. You?_ ”

“221C.”

“ _Baker Street?!”_

“Yeah.”

“Of all the obscenely obvious…!” Sherlock hung up the phone, grabbed Donovan by the arm, and dragged her down the stairs.

“Mrs. Hudson! Call an ambulance!”

“On it!” Mrs. Hudson shouted back, and then followed him out of the door when she heard him swearing at the bricks blocking his path.

“What is that?” Mrs. Hudson asked in alarm, “Why is there a _wall_ where my other flat should be?!”

“Because you never let it out!” Sherlock snapped, “And now it’s been taken over!”

“Oh, of all the ignorant… Yes, hello, we need an ambulance at 221B… yes, that’s the place. Oh! Gretchen! How are you! How are the kids?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Mrs. Hudson chatted with her favorite emergency operator. He started testing the strength of the wall and then dismissed it. The wall around it would be far easier to take down. Sherlock went up stairs and came back down with a sledgehammer just in time to hear John scream in horror and gunfire.

“John? John!” Sherlock shouted.

No answer. Sherlock tried shouting a few more times and then shouted that he was coming through the wall and to get away from the left of the doorway. Mrs. Hudson screamed at him to stop but he ignored her and started swinging. It took him at least sixteen minutes to break through the door and the smell of rotting corpse (early stages) hit him immediately.

Sherlock glanced towards the scent first and saw a man who resembled him looking slightly bloated. The bruising around his face suggested smothering but he had also been shot twice. Sherlock heard the shower running and headed there, picking the lock of the door and stepping into a very cold bathroom. John was in the tub, shaking with cold and looking disoriented. The shower curtain was open and he was making an honest effort to keep his bandaged feet dry, but Sherlock could see a yellow coating on them from where he stood.

_This is bad. Very bad._

“John,” Sherlock spoke, stepping forward to turn off the shower and help his flatmate out.

John gave him a look of absolute terror, snatched a gun up from the toilet lid, and pointed it at him. Sherlock froze. John was shaking terribly, but it was entirely possible that he’d hit Sherlock in the narrow confines of the loo.

“Sh-sh-sh-sh…” John stammered out.

“Sherlock,” Sherlock nodded, “Not Porky. It’s Sherlock, John, and I’ll help you. We need to get you to a…”

“Sh-shirt. O-off.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock asked.

“Shirt. Off,” John repeated.

“I don’t think this is the time or place.”

The gun’s safety clicked off and Sherlock began to unbutton his cuffs while John turned off the water with one hand and kept the gun trained on Sherlock with the other.

“Donovan,” Sherlock called, “Step outside.”

“Nope,” She replied. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to see Donovan standing with arms folded and a smirk on her face. She raised an eyebrow and her grin widened, “You heard him. Take it off.”

Sherlock growled in frustration and unbuttoned his shirt before stripping it off. A glance over his shoulder showed Donovan giving him an appreciative look. Sherlock looked towards John again and saw him straining forward a bit in the tub.

“C-come here,” John chattered, climbing out of the tub and crawling forward on hands and knees.

Sherlock wasn’t fool enough to think this view of his naked, wet flatmate was as erotic as it could have been. John was disoriented. He was ill. He needed some kind of reassurance from Sherlock, so he dropped to his knees to bring himself closer to John’s height.

Sherlock hissed in surprise when John’s cold fingers touched the skin at his chest, but he didn’t miss the soft whisper of his voice behind his chattering teeth.

“One… two…”

John’s fingers explored his chest and abdomen, making him jump again when he accidentally touched a nipple. Sherlock turned without being asked, shuffling around, when John ran out of moles to check. Cold fingers explored him once more and then arms wrapped around his waist as John laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Sherlock,” John sighed after breathing him in as if desperate to remember his scent, “Help me.”

Sherlock nodded, “The ambulance is on its way.”

“I’m so tired.”

John sagged back onto the floor and Sherlock turned quickly, relieved to see he hadn’t fully collapsed and struck his head. Sherlock pulled John forward and the man laid his head on his lap with a relieved sighed. Sherlock pulled a towel down and laid it across his friend, feeling him shiver and burn at the same time was frightening. He couldn’t tell after the man had doused himself in freezing water, but he suspected it was very high if he were _hallucinating_.

The ambulance crew finally got down to them, apparently held up by a bad accident blocking traffic, and loaded a shaking John into the bus. Sherlock pecked a worried Mrs. Hudson on the cheek and hopped in with him, holding John’s hand as the vehicle sped off.

_Be okay. Please be okay. I’ll do anything._


	20. Chapter 20

John woke up in increments. He felt rested, a bit foggy headed, and generally stiff. Overall it was a _huge_ improvement over the last two weeks. He knew before he opened his eyes that he was in a hospital: they have a distinct smell. However, the surprise was to find Sherlock sitting comfortably in a chair by his bedside, reading a book… shirtless.

“Sherlock,” John croaked, “Where’s your shirt?”

Sherlock looked up with a smile and straightened a bit in the chair, “You seemed to need me to keep it off the last two times you were awake.”

“What?” John asked, feeling himself blush brilliantly, “No I…”

“Do you want to count my moles?” Sherlock asked cheerfully.

John groaned and let his head fall back into the pillow. Of course. The moles. The first way he’d noticed Porky looked different from Sherlock.

“No, I think I’m good, thanks,” John sighed, then smiled at Sherlock only to frown when he saw a look of disappointment on his face, “What’s wrong?”

“Just wondering if you’re well enough to take the news.”

“News?” John asked, then winced, “How much have they had to amputate?”

Sherlock grinned, “None!”

“What?”

“It wasn’t gangrene. It was a staph infection. They had to drain it and put you on intravenous antibiotics. You’ll still be on them for a few more days.”

“ _Not_ gangrene?” John asked in relief, “Not MRSA?”

“Neither. I took a look at that cooler you were being kept in,” Sherlock stated, whipping his phone out of his trouser pocket, “I did some measurements and research and discovered if the cooler had been _three degrees_ cooler, you would have experienced cell death. I doubt your captor was aware, but it’s quite the relief either way.”

John accepted the phone and studied the graphs for a moment before looking up in surprise.

“This study of yours is very… inclusive.”

“Beg Pardon?” Sherlock asked, raising one eyebrow.

“It’s based on one person; size, height, weight, age, exposure time, and health all matching me.”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock snorted, “I was studying _your_ chances of getting gangrene, not everyone else’s.”

“Yeah, okay,” John stated, pushing himself upright with care, “But you _never_ do isolated studies. You always say they’re a waste of time.”

Sherlock blushed and turned away, his eyes darting about as though looking for an exit. For once he seemed speechless. John was more than a bit flattered, deciding this was Sherlock’s way of showing he _did_ care about John’s health and feelings- or his infinite boredom while waiting in a hospital for him to wake up. Wait… waiting in a hospital? Sherlock had no reason to sit with him for hours on end, amusing himself with boring graphs and maths computations when he could be out amusing himself elsewhere.

“I thought it would comfort you,” Sherlock stated, smoothing his trousers and still avoiding John’s eyes.

“So this is your attempt at a chummy hug?” John grinned, “Now I _know_ you’re the real Sherlock. Nobody does high functioning sociopath quite like you do.”

Sherlock glanced sideways at John, flushing even more, and then all but pounced on him. John stiffened in alarm, holding himself back from fighting Sherlock off as he suddenly gave John a very awkward hug and then fled back to his chair and sat there positively _red_.

John was flushed as well; recalling both his dream and his assault by Porky- though that had been short lived. The fact of the matter was, he was too sick to really make any kind of judgment call about how his body was or would react to Sherlock. He’d been with a man once, but it hadn’t been spectacular and he’d dismissed it as a pointless exercise. Now there was no denying that his world revolved around Sherlock Holmes. He needed time and space to think, but he didn’t _want_ time or space. He wanted to be held, and that wasn’t a feeling John Three Continents Watson was used to.

“Sherlock… look, this is an odd request, but can you come back here again? I know this sounds off, but I just need to smell you.”

Sherlock looked back at him, his face less flushed, “Scent memory is the most provocative.”

John opened his mouth, probably to say something completely embarrassing followed by sputtering, but was saved from that humiliation by Sherlock moving to sit beside him on the bed and leaning forward. This wasn’t a hug this time, it was an offer to sniff his neck. John leaned forward and did so, ignoring the prickling at the corner of his eyes as he breathed in the scent of the man he’d missed for so long. He hadn’t been close enough to Sherlock to smell him overmuch when he’d ‘returned’, but it was a scent he hadn’t forgotten for _years_ despite that. He’d known the difference the second Porky was near him.

 _This_ was his Sherlock, and as John reached up and counted his moles by feel alone he was aware of him by sight, touch, scent, and the sound of his chuckle as John tickled his side. _Four out of five senses know Sherlock completely. Shame I’ve never licked him to know what he tastes like_. The idea was ludicrous, but John was just feverish enough to impulsively turn his head and flick his tongue along Sherlock’s neck. What he tasted was cologne and salt, but it flooded his sinuses all the same and completed the knowledge he held inside his heart of his closest friend. The sensation was… soothing.

However, Sherlock clearly mistook the little lick for a kiss on his neck and responded with a sharp gasp of surprise, his entire body stiffening in alarm before turning his head and peppering John’s neck with frantic kisses.

 _I’m stubbly and I_ stink _how can he… oh my gods. The study. The lengths he’s gone to before and now to keep me safe. I’m such a fool._

John whimpered as Sherlock’s arms came around him, overwhelmed by the fact that _this man_ loved him. Truly loved him. In an unconditional way that frankly frightened John. That fear didn’t stop him from turning his head and meeting those trembling, full lips. If John had still been uncertain, that kiss would have sealed the deal. Sherlock’s lips were inexperienced and uncertain, everything Sherlock confronted with _sex_ always was and Porky never had been. John tangled his hands in his flatmate’s hair and took control of the kiss, guiding him into a _closed mouthed_ kiss to spare the foolish man a taste of his breath. When Sherlock reached down to pull the blankets away from his groin John called a halt to it by pushing gently at his chest.

Sherlock came away, eyes glazed, lips parted and swollen, panting with desire. John was undeniably aroused as well, but he was also in no fit condition for anything sexual. He was also not interested in having his first time with Sherlock (possibly Sherlock’s first time at all) be an awkward fumble in a hospital bed.

“Gods, I stink, Sherlock. I’m flattered, but we’re waiting till I’m out of here. Yeah?”

Sherlock hesitated a moment, thoughts flashing behind his eyes, and then nodded and pulled away with a vacant look in his eyes.

 “Not gay,” Sherlock sighed, running his fingers through his hair, “Not gay and not in your right mind after what you’ve been through. I apologize. I was out of line. Should I leave?”

“Hey,” John stated firmly, “I’m not rejecting you. Not at all. I just need sleep, meds, and a shower before I’m fit to be touched by anyone, let alone someone I’ve wanted for as long as I have you.”

Hope flashed in Sherlock’s eyes, but was quickly tamped down. He nodded his acceptance and then picked up his book once more, settling down and beginning to read. John watched him for a bit before hitting the call button for more pain meds. He doubted he could eat, but he wanted water or at least some ice chips. The nurse came in and gave Sherlock a hard time about his shirt and he tore her apart verbally as he always did while John scolded him. Finally he had his meds and water and was relaxing once more.

“How did you get out of going to jail over Donovan?”

“I’m out on bail,” Sherlock replied, “Lestrade posted it. They reduced it drastically since he’s a DI.”

“Oh,” John replied, suddenly thinking they might not _have_ time for a proper love making session in a bed.

“I’m confident I’ll get off on most of the charges,” Sherlock replied, “Donovan is the one who is in trouble. My lawyer- assigned by Mycroft- is arguing with hers to drop her kidnapping and assault charges against _me_ in order to keep me from testifying against _her_ , which would drastically reduce evidence against her.”

“Okay, good. Anything I can do?”

“Testify against her… Oh, Mycroft told me to make sure you felt ‘up to it’ before asking you to.”

John smiled softly, “I think I can manage.”

“You can go home I two days,” Sherlock stated, answering John’s next question before he asked it, “Gregson will be by fairly soon for your statement, he’s lead on the cases.”

John nodded, sighed, and let himself drift off in the lull of medicated haze.


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock all but carried John up the steps to their flat, helping him straight into his own bedroom and down on his bed.

“Ahhh, Sherlock?” John asked awkwardly.

“My room is closer to the bathroom and kitchen and has no extra stairs to traverse,” Sherlock stated, “It’s only logical to put you here.”

“Where will you sleep, then?” John asked, not making eye contact.

Sherlock paused, studied John carefully and then ventured an answer, “The couch?”

“Good deduction,” John nodded.

“Right. Good.”

“You don’t know why, do you?” John smirked.

“Not really, no. Boundaries?”

“Yes, Sherlock, boundaries. If we’re going to do this we should do it right, and that means taking it slow so we…”

“Five and a half years isn’t slow?” Sherlock asked, giving John an outraged look.

John thought on that, “I’m also still healing, Sherlock, and still more than a bit uncertain about my sexuality. I don’t want to lead you on and I don’t want to make a very _big_ mistake with you that will damage our relationship permanently. _I_ need to go slow.”

Sherlock looked ready to explode with frustration, shifting from foot to foot and staring at the walls as though contemplating climbing them.

“Slow. Fine. I can wait. I’ll just… go call Gregson.”

John sagged back onto the bed, too drained to focus on Sherlock’s feelings at the moment. He’d try to soothe the aggravated man later. Hopefully before he drove Gregson insane.

XXX

Sherlock had expected them to simply add sex to their already marriage-like relationship, but it seemed John was still hesitant. Add to that, he’d just been through what everyone kept informing him was a _traumatic_ _ordeal_. John, however, just seemed tired and in pain rather than traumatized. Sherlock _knew_ what John looked like when traumatized; in fact Sherlock had brought out the cane from a closet and leaned it against the door as a reminder. John had scowled at it and given Sherlock a pointed glare, but he was wheelchair bound until his feet fully healed.

Sherlock had been frustrated and spent some time sulking until he found John in the kitchen staring up at the shelf where the tea was stored. He’d been there a while, which was why Sherlock had come to see what was taking him so long to bring him his usual cup of tea.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“I thought we’ve established it’s best if you leave that to me.”

“I should go and stay with Harry,” John said softly.

Sherlock tried not to panic, but it was a near thing, “Harry? Why?”

“I’m an invalid, Sherlock. This isn’t psychosomatic, you can’t fix it.”

“It’s temporary,” Sherlock protested, “I don’t need to fix it, it will fix itself! That’s like saying you can’t stay because it’s nighttime! The damn sun will rise eventually!”

 “Yes, and once I’m healed up I’ll come back.”

“And we’ll be waiting _longer_.”

“There isn’t a _we_ , Sherlock,” John scoffed, turning to wheel himself to Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock mentally flailed, not a state he was used to, and then chased after John to find him stuffing things into the suitcase Mrs. Hudson had used to move his things downstairs for them.

“Tell me what I’ve done wrong,” Sherlock demanded.

“You’re just… you, Sherlock. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.”

“This _what?_ You’ve been here a night and two hours of a morning! _What have I done wrong?!_ ”

“Stop yelling,” John sighed.

Sherlock blinked. He hadn’t even realized his voice had been raised. Sherlock took a deep breath and tried again, “I don’t _do_ relationships, John. I’ve _never_ done relationships. I need your _guidance_. Tell me what I’ve done that is so awful you’re packing up.”

“Not cared.”

“What?”

“You don’t care. You aren’t capable of it. I don’t know why I thought you were when you’ve never been before, so I guess it’s really my mistake and not yours.”

“What makes you think I don’t care? I gave you my bed!”

“Yes, thank you for that.”

Silence.

“Well?!”

“Well, what? And what did I say about shouting?”

“Well, what _else_ should I have done?” Sherlock growled, keeping his voice at an acceptable level.

“ _Helped_ me, Sherlock. I can’t stand. I’m not supposed to put any weight on my feet for the next two weeks. You just called out for me to bring you some tea. I can’t even reach the _tin_.”

“Then _tell me that!_ ” Sherlock shouted, his voice cracking.

John looked up in surprise. Sherlock did as well- he looked up at the mirror over his dresser. Sherlock was shocked to see his face flushed, his expression one of panic, and his respiration elevated. He looked close to tears. Was he? He wasn’t honestly sure. It happened so rarely for real; usually tears were a tool for him, not an emotional expression.

“Sherlock, I need to know that you aren’t playing me right now,” John stated softly.

“I’m not,” Sherlock stated, dragging his eyes away from the mirror, “I’m as surprised as you are. I don’t… I didn’t… this is _new_ for me, John. Having you nearby was enough for a long time. I never considered anything more. Being away from you was awful, but I just assumed we’d go back to the way it was before. Now I’ve seen something I never dared to _fantasize_ about, and it’s just out of reach. I don’t know how to handle that. My first instinct is to put everything back to the way it was.”

John studied him curiously for a moment before nodding his head, “Okay. Right. Clearly I owe you an apology.”

“You owe _me_ one? I’m lost again.”

“I expected too much from you, expected you to read me the way you usually do, but this sort of thing isn’t something you’re used to reading in people. I’m sorry, Sherlock, and I’ll do my best to communicate from now on.”

“Right. Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

Sherlock turned and all but fled the bedroom, hurrying to the kitchen to make tea as if his life depended on it. In a way it did, John was offering him a chance to have something he had thought so precious he dared not even analyze it. Sherlock handed John his tea where he’d settled to one side of his usual chair, nodding at his thank you and then stood there, thinking of different things he could do for John. They had food already- Mrs. Hudson had seen to that- so he couldn’t do the shopping. He hadn’t yet filled the flat up with bits of experiments, so there wasn’t anything to clean. John had mentioned communication, did that mean Sherlock should ask?

“John, what should I do next?”

“Just… sit with me, yeah? Not for long, I know you get bored. Just for a bit.”

Sherlock sat down, sipping his own tea without tasting it and watching John anxiously.

“Listen,” John sighed, “Can we just chalk that little display up to medication? I didn’t mean to go off like a nutter on you. I don’t usually just throw in the towel the second I’m feeling sore.”

Sherlock nodded, “That seems reasonable. Do you need your medication adjusted?”

“I think I need a bit less, yeah. I’ll cut my next tablet in half,” John sighed.

“Pain management can be difficult,” Sherlock noted, “It’s how my drug habit started.”

“It is?” John asked in surprise, “Do you mind telling me about it? I don’t know much about your past.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, “Is that important? Our past?”

“Well sure, it’s what made us who we are today. It helps us understand each other.”

Sherlock thought on that for a moment and then decided he’d need something to do with his hands if he was going to monologue for a bit.

“Just a moment. I’m going to fetch my violin,” Sherlock stated.

When he’d returned John was looking tired, but still interested so he sat down to explain a few things while plucking at the string of his violin.

“I had been quite the daredevil as a child,” Sherlock stated, “One day I was pretending to be a pirate with Mycroft when I took a running jump off of our ship- except our ship was a loft in the stables where Mummy kept her prize horses.”

“Prize horses? We’ll have to revisit that,” John smiled.

Sherlock nodded, “I landed badly, missing the hay we’d laid out to break our falls, and broke my leg along a growth plate. It was rather severe and required pins and the like. It also had to be re-broken a year later and re-set when it started to delay my growth. They thought I’d end up with one leg shorter than the other, but it turned out all right in the end. Sadly, I was on some pretty intense pain killers the entire time, my mother pressuring the doctors to give me stuff only adults would usually have because she couldn’t stand to see me in pain. When they stopped it they didn’t bother weaning me, probably because of my mother once again. I remembered the craving for years and when I reached adolescence I sought out a solution the second drugs were mentioned at school.”

“How young did you start using?”

“Hmmm, twelve? Thirteen? Nothing hardcore at the time, but eventually I escalated and ended up truly out of control in Uni. It caused me to be kicked out despite Mummy’s influence, although really I think she advocated my removal from the school. I think she blamed the students for influencing me when really the truth was quite the opposite. It’s a bit of a blur, really. One of the things I hated was the difficulty with memory. That’s when I developed my mind palace, so I wouldn’t lose information while using.”

They talked for a few hours until John was worn out, then Sherlock helped him to the sofa where he stretched out for a bit. Sherlock ordered him some takeaway and left for a minor case that DI Athelney Jones had texted him about. He got so caught up in the case- a mugger who had a way with his victims that left them _thankful_ for his intervention- that he forgot all about John until around two in the morning. Once the mugger (an untrained psychology hobbyist who used methods impressively similar to Sherlock’s to talk his victims out of their valuables) was finally in Jones’ custody, Sherlock checked his phone to find several messages and a missed call from John.

**When are you coming home? I’m sort of stuck on the couch JW**

**Just called. You didn’t answer. Text me? JW**

**Starting to feel a bit like a needy girlfriend here. JW**

**Honestly, though, I do need the toilet. Having trouble getting from sofa to wheelchair. Height difference. Seems a repeat problem for me. LOL. JW**

**Mrs. Hudson is out. Need you to come here or send someone else. JW**

**Mike is out of town on a conference. JW**

**Mrs. Turner is out, too. JW**

**That communication thing? It’s a two way street, Sherlock. JW**

**Need my meds and the toilet. Urgently. JW**

**Okay, I’m crossing the line into ‘needy girlfriend’. You better bring chocolate when you come back or I’ll be the one who doesn’t talk for days. JW**

Sherlock swallowed his annoyance at himself and called Lestrade.

“Sherlock, I’m on leave till my bullet wound heals, remember? No cases from me,” Lestrade grouched.

“I don’t need that I need… Mycroft is there, isn’t he?” Sherlock growled.

“How the hell do you two _do_ that?” Lestrade asked while Mycroft chuckled in the background, “What do you need, Sherlock?”

“Not while Mycroft is there. Leave the room and don’t tell... never mind. I’ll call Stamford,” Sherlock hung up and dialed Stamford, “Mike. John is mad at me. What sort of candy does he like?”

There was a moment of stunned silence and then, “John _Watson_?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea. He doesn’t seem a candy sort of bloke to me.”

“He specified chocolates if that helps.”

“I honestly think you’d be better off getting him beer.”

“He can’t drink, he’s on medication. For some ridiculous reason he doesn’t want to mix the two.”

“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten in my moment of… relief.”

“Relief?”

“That you two have finally gotten together.”

Sherlock paused a moment. He wasn’t used to _ordinary_ people deducing him, but then Mike had always been extremely tolerable. Sherlock finally saw a cab and hailed it.

“We’re not… quite together,” Sherlock confided after telling the cabbie to head to the nearest convenience store, “He’s uncertain about his sexuality still, and more than a bit… demanding.”

“Well he is a bit dependent on you at the moment, I’m sure both issues will pass.”

“Yes, that’s most likely. About the candy?”

“Try assorted chocolates and chocolate biscuits. No one can resist them.”

“Right,” Sherlock stated and hung up the phone.

Sherlock headed upstairs with his parcels under his arm and entered their flat to find the fireplace burned down and the sitting room lights still on.

“John?” Sherlock called, then headed towards the bedroom.

John wasn’t in the bedroom; he was curled up on the floor of the bathroom sound asleep. There was only urine in the toilet, so he hadn’t been sick. John hadn’t touched the takeaway Mrs. Hudson had brought up for him. It was possible he hadn’t felt up to curry. _I should have asked, I suppose._ Sherlock determined he’d crawled in there, used the toilet, taken his meds on an empty stomach, and curled up to sleep off the stomach pain and general discomfort. Sherlock stood in the entrance of the bathroom, uncertain as to what to do now.

_What I really want is to hold him. Kiss him. Touch every inch of him. Possibly even…_

Sherlock swallowed his thoughts down when his cock started showing interest in a man who was snoring on the rug in the loo.

 _I can lift him on my own, but it wouldn’t be easy and he’d definitely wake up. Or I could join him… uncomfortable and potentially harmful to myself when I need to be strong enough to care for him_ properly _tomorrow._ _Or I could wake him and get his grouchy self back to the bed… perhaps he’d let me make the day up to him in a different way._

Sherlock decided on that course, fetched John’s wheelchair, and gave him a gentle shake. He came awake with a shout of surprise and stared up at Sherlock in confusion.

“Sherlock?”

“I know I bungled the whole day, but I’d like to make it up to you by helping you to bed and performing fellatio on you.”

“Sorry?”

“Oral sex,” Sherlock replied, deciding that was the part John was lost on.

“You want to give me a BJ?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Well… fuck.”

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, “That would be acceptable as well.”

“What happened to the chocolates?” John asked blearily.

“Oh, I have those as well, but you should know that their aphrodisiac properties are highly exaggerated.”

John snorted and waved to the wheelchair, “I see your claim that girlfriends weren’t your area is beyond truthful.”

They both grunted as John was heaved into the chair and John continued, “Chocolate is a magical substance which should be air dropped into every country in the world without impunity.”

“I think your analysis is flawed,” Sherlock stated with a smirk, “But I’ll be happy to test your theory.”

John was silent until they got to the bed and Sherlock helped him in, then they both stared at each other uncomfortably.

“Still too soon?” Sherlock asked, “I’m not trying to push you, I just want to make you less angry with me and an orgasm is usually the most expedient route to calming a male. For instance, the bonobo apes of the Congo settle disputes amongst their kind via sexual congress.”

“That’s brilliant. We should do that… humans I mean.”

“Then you’ll let me…”

John groaned as he settled back into bed, “Not sure I feel up to it. I feel like shite.”

“Was that a double entendre?”

John snorted, “Oh, I _can_ get it up… just not sure I’ll be able to do anything with it once it’s there annoying the fuck out of me.”

Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed.

“A compromise then?”

“I don’t think I’m ready to…” John sighed, “Sound like a cocktease again.”

Sherlock smiled softly, “You aren’t a cocktease, you’re just not sure of your desires. That’s understandable, however you won’t figure it out by avoiding contact with me. You care about me at least, yes?”

“Yes. Love you, I’d say,” John replied, boldly meeting Sherlock’s eyes as he said it.

“Good that’s… good,” Sherlock flushed and looked down at his hands, “Then let me hold you. It’s what people who love each other do, isn’t it?”

John smiled, “Yeah, but some soup or something first? I think I could get some broth down.”

Sherlock nodded and pressed a kiss to his cheek quickly before he could duck shyly away and hurried downstairs to have Mrs. Hudson make John broth. John requested his laptop after that and sipped it slowly, his stomach growling loudly as he did so.

“Feeling better?” Sherlock asked, carefully slipping onto the bed and tucking his feet beneath him.

“A bit, yeah,” John replied, “I’m kind of… curious. I’d like to look some things up.”

“There’s no need. I may not have engaged in it, but I am fully familiar with the basics of most homosexual acts.”

“Mmm, including cock sucking?” John asked in an amused tone.

“No teeth, plenty of tongue, some suction, wrap your hand around the base until you’re able to take it all the way back into your…”

“OKAY!” John shouted to cut him off, “That’s… enough description. I wasn’t referring to technique, I was referring to whether or not I fancy men.”

“Porn,” Sherlock sighed, “You’re going to look at gay porn.”

“ _We’re_ going to look at gay porn.”

“Oh _gods_ ,” Sherlock groaned miserably, “ _Why_. Porn is inaccurate. It doesn’t validate your sexuality.”

“But it does turn me on, usually. If other men can arouse me then I know what my sexuality is. If I don’t, then I’ll know it’s just you that sets me off.”

“What difference does it make? Either way you know you’re attracted to me. I’ve already given you one erection, it’s just a matter of time before I give you another.”

“So damn humble, I don’t know how you do it,” John smiled, pulling up his favorite website and clicking on a section he’d never touched before, “Look, I experimented in Uni and it was… less than stellar. In fact I hated it. I need to reconcile that experience with any I might have with you before we start.”

“It was particularly awful I take it?” Sherlock asked, leaning over to watch as two buff men started kissing each other frantically on the screen.

“Nothing traumatic,” John shrugged, “It was just completely unsatisfying and a little bit painful.”

“You bottomed?”

“He said short guys couldn’t top because it wouldn’t work out position-wise. I was a virgin where men were concerned and stupid enough to believe him,” John replied, his tone disgusted, “It turns out women aren’t so picky.”

“Sounds as if you had a good reason _not_ to enjoy your encounter. Is this doing it for you?”

“Not really.”

The men on the screen were sucking each other off now, both side by side and somehow managing not to choke on each other’s unreasonably sized genitalia.

“What is that ridiculous phrase?” Sherlock wondered, “I know I stored it somewhere for comedic value… ah, yes… If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine?”

John snickered, “Yeah, still not happening. Wait till my feet heal, okay? And pass the chocolate digestives.”

Sherlock sighed and passed the box over. John eventually tired of seeing subpar acting combined with unnaturally long sex scenes and wheeled himself to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Sherlock joined him, watching his movements unguardedly; he’d always made it a point to be sneaky before but now he had no reason to hide his attraction and longing to both watch and touch this brave, loyal man. John smiled up at him, his eyes sparkling in a way that was entirely unfamiliar to Sherlock. He wanted to know what it was instantly.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“It’s called fondness, Data,” John laughed, “Come to bed and cuddle with me.”

“Cuddle?” Sherlock replied, giving him a disgusted look.

“Ask and ye shall receive,” John grinned, ignoring Sherlock’s protests that he hadn’t asked to _cuddle_. John wheeled himself back into the bedroom and dragged himself into it, “I’m getting better at this. I never bothered with a wheelchair after I got shot, I went straight to a cane.”

John tucked himself beneath the covers and Sherlock changed quickly, glancing back eagerly to see John watching him, before crawling in the other side. He hesitated a moment and then rolled over and pulled John’s arm around his hip.

“Ooo, I get to be the big spoon?” John teased.

“You did say you wanted to differentiate between your past experience.”

“I told you,” John replied, kissing Sherlock’s neck, “Not traumatized. I’m just trying to rationalize it is all. I can’t give you what you want right now but… Roll over anyway.”

Sherlock did so and found his lips engaged in a slow and sensual kiss quite unlike the one he’d attempted at the hospital. John slipped his hand down along Sherlock’s ribs, caressing him firmly enough to avoid tickling but gently enough to render the detective a mess of gooseflesh.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, breaking the kiss and pulling back, “About you not being a cocktease…”

John smirked and cupped Sherlock’s crotch, drawing a deep groan from him as Sherlock’s eyes rolled back in his head. John had snatched up some tissues on his way into the bed, so he didn’t hold back for an instant as he stroked Sherlock to completion.

Sherlock Holmes aroused was one thing. Sherlock Holmes consumed with pleasure was another thing entirely. He was flushed, his expression more open than anything he’d ever seen. The man’s voice was filling the room as he gasped and cried out in pleasure. Sherlock’s hips were thrusting into John’s hand and he quickly slipped his pants down so he could touch his bare skin. It was an odd feeling for John, feeling Sherlock’s hardness around his soft skin; this was a sensation John was used to feeling from the other side. However, it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, especially as Sherlock wrapped his arms around John in a need to grasp something as he moved closer to his climax.

“John,” Sherlock moaned, his face buried in John’s shoulder.

Sherlock gasped as he pressed his face to John’s skin, breathing in his scent as he thrust over and again into John’s strong hand. He heard the man’s pleased hum as he began to swell and made a frantic attempt to touch the man back. He ended up grasping John’s arse awkwardly and screaming humiliatingly as he came into a tissue John pressed against the head of his cock even as he teased the foreskin beneath the soft swell of his cock head with his thumb. His climax blinded Sherlock and all he knew was John’s scent, sparks of pleasure, and the rewarding endorphin flood.

John lay there for an hour after Sherlock had fallen into a sex stupor and drifted off with a contended sigh. He was studying the palm of his hand where a smear of Sherlock’s semen remained and trying to reconcile himself with the desires he felt. He’d been content to see Sherlock aroused and pleasured, and he desperately wanted to see him that way again- especially the part where he passed out with a silly grin on his face. The way he’d throbbed in his boxers when Sherlock had gripped his ass hard enough to hurt had been… well, he couldn’t very well doubt his attraction now.

Now John was waxing and waning, his arousal a tease in his pants as he slowly touched himself to hardness only to leave it go when he became frustrated. As a doctor, John knew part of sex was psychological, but the fact was he was both afraid and enticed by a relationship with Sherlock. It meant a life changing decision for him, but it also meant a love that he might actually be happy with. John gave his hand an experimental lick, grimacing at the taste, but it didn’t dampen his arousal. John rolled onto his side and pressed against Sherlock’s backside, slowly rolling his hips as his cock ached for release even as he felt a longing to sleep nearly overwhelm him.

_I should wake Sherlock and ask him to reciprocate. I think I could come, but I’m just so… hesitant._

 “John,” Sherlock sighed, and then pushed back, “You should have told me you’d changed your mind.”

John moaned, pressing harder and grasping his hip to give him more leverage, “Not sure… Mmm, you’ve got the most lush ass.”

“Lush?” Sherlock snorted.

“Do me a favor and leave the criticizing voice out of the bedroom, yeah?”

“Would you prefer to hear about how often I’ve touched myself while replaying the sound of you praising me in my mind?”

“Mmm, yeah,” John breathed, feeling more energetic with that bit of imagery. The idea that the man he held up on a pedestal was so attracted to him was overwhelming.

“It’s a shame I never did, then.”

“Umm,” John pulled back in surprise and Sherlock rolled over, tugging his pants down and grasping his cock.

“I never _dared_ to fantasize about you, John,” Sherlock told him, his voice deep with passion, “You were so untouchable to me, too precious to risk losing over mere physical release. I would spend _hours_ pleasuring you if you allowed me to.”

“Hours?” John panted.

Sherlock slid down in the covers and took the head of John’s cock into his mouth, humming deeply as he suckled him before slipping his tongue beneath his foreskin and teasing the sensitive flesh. John moaned, tangling his hand in those beautiful curls. Sherlock took him a bit further in and gave his head an experimental bob. John guided him gently, careful not to force the inexperienced man too far down his shaft. Sherlock got used to the motion and began to suckle while bobbing his head and flicking his tongue enthusiastically. John was almost over stimulated by his eager methods, but he wasn’t about to complain while getting sucked off for the first time in ages.

“Sherlock,” John panted, “M’ close!”

Sherlock hummed appreciatively and John found himself pulsing into the man’s mouth. Sherlock paused a moment, and then swallowed it down and gave John a few slurps to finish him off before sitting up and smiling proudly.

“You see? I _told_ you it was only a matter of time.”

“Git,” John laughed, pressing a kiss to those swollen lips and humming when he tasted himself, “Go back to sleep.”

“Can’t. I’m awake now. Unless you need something I’m going to go unpack my chemistry equipment.”

John sighed, “I suppose asking you to sleep the whole night with me would be cruel.”

“Decidedly.”

“All right then, off with you. Just answer your phone when I text you, okay? I promise not to bug you unless I legitimately need something.”

“All right then,” Sherlock swooped in for a kiss and then hurried away, leaving a sated and comfortable John to drift off to sleep.


	22. Chapter 22

The next few days were a lazy bit of recovery and mostly involved lots of cuddling until Sherlock got a legitimate case. Then he was just about completely distracted and snapped at John whenever he ‘got needy’. John was moving about the flat mostly on his own now, so he had Mrs. Hudson help him out when he needed it. For a bit they drifted apart where intimacy was concerned until Sherlock solved it and came flouncing into the flat with a grin on his face and an erection in his trousers.

“I did it John. I wish you’d been there. I was _brilliant_.”

John chuckled, “Sounds like you’re complimenting yourself, no need for me to be there.”

“It isn’t the _same_ ,” Sherlock insisted, crossing the room and straddling John’s lap where he sat on the couch, “Solving a case is satisfying, but not nearly as exhilarating as when you’re there looking at me with your eyes wide with amazement and your face _flushed_ with excitement.”

Sherlock kissed him hungrily, full lips claiming thin hesitant ones and devouring him as he frotted against him.

“I need you, John,” Sherlock breathed, “You complete me. Please touch me. _Please_.”

John was completely undone by Sherlock’s whispered plee and ended up grasping his arse firmly and urging him to roll his hips into him. Sherlock’s head fell back, his mouth open in pleasure as he savored the friction between their bodies. John began to groan as his own member hardened in his pajama bottoms. Sherlock was running his hands over John’s chest, eyes wide as he looked at him as if he were determined to memorize every inch of him. That look, that intense gaze, was driving John even more wild than his hands were as they stroked his nipples to firm nubs and then pinched him firmly. John hissed, arching up and beginning to buck for more.

Then he made the mistake of pressing his feet to the floor and yelped in pain.

“Damn! Damn! Damn! This isn’t bloody _fair!_ I want to fuck you already!” John shouted angrily, and then flushed in horror as he realized what he’d said, “Sherlock… I…”

“Gods yes,” Sherlock breathed, and kissed him viciously before climbing out of his lap and undoing his trousers.

“Wait, Sherlock. I’m in _pain_. I can’t…”

“Has discomfort ever stopped you from having sex before?”

“Well, no, but…”

“Then why should it now?”

“I don’t know, because it’s our first time? I’m being maudlin, Sherlock. I just want to feel _whole_ again before I’m with you.”

“John,” Sherlock sighed, settling down on his lap with only a shirt on, “Haven’t you been listening? _I’m_ what makes you whole. Not your feet. Not your formerly gimpy leg. Not your mental health, which is questionable in most people anyway. _Me_.”

“I’d call you arrogant if you weren’t absolutely right,” John smiled, “And half naked. There’s that, too.”

“On your back,” Sherlock decided, “I can ride you that way.”

“Bed, you’ll have more room to.”

Sherlock nodded and headed for the bedroom while John slipped into the wheelchair and hurried after him. He was anxious, but excited as well. It had been too long since he’d been inside of someone, and nearly a decade since he’d tried anal (from the top and with a woman). He recalled it being almost uncomfortably tight, but he’d come so he must have at least partially enjoyed it. Now he was going to experience it with Sherlock, who had confessed to being virginal. He rather hoped he could satisfy the man, he’d hate for _both_ of their first experiences with men to be awful.

Sherlock was naked and fingering himself with two wet digits when John rolled in. He stopped and gaped at the sight of Sherlock’s being plundered by his own long fingers. The man was kneeling on the bed, legs spread, and shoulders down, his arm was between his legs to give him the reach he needed. A bottle of lube was leaking onto the bedspread so John quickly rescued it, hanked his trousers down, and fisted some onto his cock.

“How’s that feel, then?” John asked softly, frozen to the spot and aching with desire.

“A bit… odd, but not unpleasant. I hope you’ll let me try this for you some day. I think I could make it- _mmmm-_ good for you. Better at least.”

“I think I could trust you with that… in time,” John agreed.

“I haven’t found my prostate yet. How do you doctors do this? I know where it _should_ be.”

“A bit more downward,” John instructed, “Like you’re trying to stroke your cock from inside.”

Sherlock followed John’s instructions and then hissed and bucked, gasping in surprise, “Oh that’s… well.”

“Good? Bad?” John asked giving himself a squeeze and reminding himself not to come yet, “It should feel a bit good.”

“More than a bit. Odd, yes, and good, and oh goooooooods,” Sherlock moaned, beginning to finger himself in earnest. John could see his cock starting to harden once more.

“Hold up, then, I’m suppose to be a part of this,” John urged, wiping his hand off and clambering onto the bed.

“Then get up here and help. I can’t get three fingers in from this angle and you’re rather thick.”

John crawled on his knees to Sherlock’s wriggling form and had to tug his hand out of his arse, drawing a disappointed groan from the man.

“John, I’m _empty_ ,” Sherlock groaned.

“Just a tick,” John panted, lubing up his fingers and slipping two in for a moment.

Sherlock was bucking back against them eagerly so John had to still him in order to slide a third in. Sherlock hissed and clenched, prompting John to rub circles in his hip and speak soothingly to him.

“Move,” Sherlock whispered, and John pumped his fingers obediently.

Once Sherlock was stretched and _very_ lubricated, John lined his cock up and started to push in.

“No, not like this,” Sherlock pulled away, “I want to see your face.”

John grunted his agreement and flopped down onto his back, mindful of his feet. Sherlock straddled him and John was instantly glad for the change of position. Sherlock’s face was flushed with desire, his brow damp with sweat, and his eyes were so dilated they looked like two black orbs ringed with an ethereal green glow. John held his cock steady while Sherlock started to slide down on it, reminding him gently to unclench and to take his time. Sherlock’s expression flickered in between wonder and pain as he sank down.

“So thick,” Sherlock whispered, “So tight to fit… I can’t…”

“You can, love, just relax. It’s not any bigger around than three fingers; it’s just a bit less forgiving. You can take it.”

Sherlock moaned as the head breeched the first muscle completely and John hissed in pleasure at the _pop_ of entry. They both held still a moment and then Sherlock sank down a bit more before pulling up.

“I… I can’t take more.”

“That’s fine,” John gasped, “Just… move a bit and…”

Sherlock set up a motion, rocking up and down on the tip and first two inches of John’s cock. John moaned in bliss, grasping his hips and doing his best not to thrust up into him. The only issue was that Sherlock was milking his prostate against John’s cock and the man was going to run _out of_ orgasm if he kept it up. As erotic as it was to see the man’s cock weeping for him, drop after drop of come slipping from the slit as the man rocked on top of him. Sherlock’s eyes were glazed with pleasure, his mouth gasping for air. He was completely lost to what he was doing to himself, even as he whined and stroked himself in longing for the climax he was unintentionally denying himself.

“Sherlock,” John panted, “Sherlock, you have to take more. Just… slide down a bit further.”

John gasped as Sherlock slid further down when he took his hips and pulled against him. Sherlock let out a full body shiver as he slid down John’s shaft, moaning as the pressure on his prostate was relieved. His cock stopped leaking, but it also swelled in impending orgasm and John gasped at the beautiful sight.

“John!” Sherlock cried out, stroking himself frantically.

Sherlock’s body was clenching John tightly, sucking him into his body as his hips trembled eagerly. He’d stopped trying to ride John at all so John was lying still, frustrated and aching as the man above him chased his orgasm. Finally Sherlock’s bollocks rose up, he cried out, gasping out John’s name as he came across his chest. John moaned at the sight, feeling his own balls clench tightly, but there wasn’t enough stimulation to get him over the edge and he couldn’t thrust up without hurting his feet.

Sherlock swayed in John’s lap, sighing in bliss as he basked in the afterglow. John smiled up at him, enjoying Sherlock’s pleasure until his own ache became too much.

“Sherlock,” John urged, tapping his hip to get his attention.

Sherlock smiled lopsidedly, “Hmm?”

“Kinda frustrated here,” John urged, tapping his hip again.

“Oh?”

John sighed, “Roll over.”

Sherlock giggled and rolled off of John, taking up a hands and knees position again. John rolled over carefully and then kneeled behind him, lining himself up and pressing inside his gaping, twitching hole. It was heavenly sliding into him, especially with his body now lax from pleasure. He avoided Sherlock’s prostate and sought his own release.

“I like it better this way,” Sherlock panted, “I like being able to focus on your passion.”

“Fuck!” John replied intelligently.

He was drawing close again. Pleasure coiling in his belly as he pounded into Sherlock’s body.

“A fantastic first time, frankly,” Sherlock stated happily, dropping down on his shoulders and peering over his shoulder to smile at John, “You’re a _very_ giving lover.”

Sherlock’s purring voice was doing wonderful things to John’s body and he grunted for reply. “I’m so glad I gave my virginity to _you_ , John. I wasn’t saving it per se, but I understand that’s an erotic concept.”

John began to thrust faster, gasping in pleasure as he felt his cock swell inside Sherlock’s passage. The man flexed his muscles for him and John came with a grunt, giving himself the unmitigated pleasure of thrusting several more times before drawing still and sighing in delight.

“Was your first time- well, first time _topping_ a man- pleasurable as well?” Sherlock asked cheerfully as John sank down on the bed beside him.

Sherlock was stretched out on his belly while John lay there with come cooling on his belly and contentment settling in his mind.

“Yes. Fantastic. Wonderful. _Brilliant_ ,” John sighed.

“Mmm, I love it when you talk about me like that.”

“Prat,” John rolled over and rubbed the small of Sherlock’s back, “Are you in any pain?”

“No; a bit of discomfort, but no pain. You were very gentle… right up until the end, and I confess to rather enjoying that.”

John chuckled, “Glad I wasn’t dull.”

“No, John, not dull. Never dull. That’s why I can’t get enough of you. Even when you’re just sitting about reading medical journals you don’t bore me. I could watch you all day and enjoy every moment of it… though I do still need cases and experiments to keep me from going mad.”

They both chuckled for a moment and John urged Sherlock to get him a damp flannel for their mucked up bodies. He left, swearing about _leaking,_ and then came back with the flannel.

“Tell me about the case,” John insisted when Sherlock lay back down beside him.

Sherlock smiled like the morning sun and John sighed happily as the man launched into one of his descriptive and flowery monologues. John snuggled close, running his fingers over his chest and hip, wondering at the feel of his course leg and arm hair. This man was beautiful, but so different from the women he was used to spending the night with. Especially the flaccid cock lying limp on his thigh. That being said, he had never been so comfortable with the person he was beside before. He _knew_ Sherlock would be there the next morning- not that he was usually had lovers running out on him, but it was a comfort to know the man would happily spend the rest of their lives together.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock stated, interrupting his own monologue.

“What?” John asked.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” John wondered, still confused.

“Yes, John, I’ll spend the rest of my life with you. That’s what you were thinking about, wasn’t it? I know you too well to get it wrong… now.”

“Yes,” John replied, nodding, “I was, but… you don’t need to commit yourself to me. I mean… I’m not asking you to marry me…”

“Of course you aren’t. I’m going to ask you.”

“What?”

“Oh, not right away. I’ll wait until you’ve had more time to adjust. Then I’ll get Da’s ring from Mycroft and ask you to marry me. He was going to give it to Lestrade, but he’ll turn it over to me out of pure joy that I’m willing to settle down with you.”

“I don’t want to take Lestrade’s ring…”

“It isn’t _Lestrade’s_ ring, it’s my Da’s ring, and it’s going to be _our_ ring. I’ll wear Mummy’s, it will fit me better than you. I have her fingers,” Sherlock flexed the very fingers that had just been inside his arse and John swallowed hard, “Mycroft can afford to buy his own pretty wedding bands’ Lestrade looks better in silver anyway.”

“So do you,” John pointed out.

“Yes, but _you_ look better in gold. My tawny lion,” Sherlock growled, and kissed him hungrily. John let himself be slid onto his back and enjoyed the feel of Sherlock settling between his thighs. “I want to be inside you next. Let me inside you, John.”

“Yes,” John panted, feeling himself harden once more, “Gods, you make me wild.”

“You’ve always had a short refractory period,” Sherlock murmured as he kissed down John’s neck, “I noticed it when you had a girlfriend over here for a night. Three times in one night, my dear? On the third time I want you to fuck me again. Will you do that?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Will you take me hard, John? Or slow? I think I’d like you to take me slowly at first.”

“ _Yes!_ ” John was gasping for it as Sherlock lifted one thigh over his shoulder and slipped a wet digit between his cheeks.

“Then hard until I come from your cock alone.”

“Mph,” John grunted at the first breech, but there was no stopping it now.

Sherlock prepared him quickly and efficiently, teasing his prostate and lapping at his cock until John was distracted from the discomfort. Then he crawled up his body, holding both legs beneath the knees, and rubbed his cock against his entrance.

“Help me inside of you, John,” Sherlock breathed, “Guide me in. I want you to _welcome_ me in, not just have me there because I asked you.”

John reached down between his legs and guided Sherlock’s cock to his gaping pucker. Sherlock moaned as he pressed inside, his eyes going wide.

“Gods,” Sherlock gasped, “How did you not come immediately.”

“Practice,” John teased, mostly to get over the pain as Sherlock popped inside of him.

He didn’t stop him from thrusting forward, though he should have as it was _far_ too soon for him. John closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as the pain radiated outward, but Sherlock stilled suddenly.

“I’ve hurt you,” Sherlock stated, his voice anxious.

John opened his eyes and just barely stopped Sherlock from pulling out completely, “Wait. Just… wait.”

“I wanted you to _enjoy_ this.”

“I will just… give me a moment.”

John panted and Sherlock stilled. John reached down and stroked himself, ignoring Sherlock’s whimpers of need as he pumped his cock back to hardness. His eyes were fixed on Sherlock’s look of pain/pleasure as he focused on making himself feel pleasure over pain.

“Okay,” John panted, “Angle your hips up and…”

Sherlock started moving, pressing in and out as slowly as possible while angling upwards. John saw sparks behind his eyes and moaned as every thrust of Sherlock’s cock felt as if he was stroking his cock from the inside. Sherlock panted as he sped up and John began to stroke himself faster to keep time. Sherlock was panting for breath, and they both knew it was going to take a bit for them to come after having had sex an hour earlier.

John reached up and tugged at Sherlock’s curls, “Come down here, lie on me.”

Sherlock lowered John’s legs carefully and he wrapped them around the man’s waist as he leaned forward and buried his face in his lover’s shoulder. Sherlock groaned and began to rock faster. John couldn’t reach his cock from this position, so he wrapped his arms around his lithe lover and enjoyed the feel of him flexing across his body. His heels were tight to that plush arse, egging him on until he was riding him wildly. Sherlock was growling like a wild thing and John’s eyes were rolling in his head as his p-spot was pummeled and his cock was being rubbed against the man’s flat stomach.

“Yes! Mark me!” Sherlock snarled, and John gasped as he realized he’d been scratching at the man’s back.

Sherlock lifted his head and sank his teeth into John’s shoulder, bringing him tumbling over the edge with a roar of pleasure as he came _hard_. John was lax with pleasure when Sherlock stiffened above him and groaned out his own climax. John sighed contentedly as he felt himself filled with the man’s warm seed. 

“Oh gods,” Sherlock gasped, slumped against his body, “That was. Oh my gods.”

“You’re welcome,” John chuckled.

“That was so, so wonderful,” Sherlock babbled, nuzzling John’s neck, “No wonder you’re always trying to get off with someone.”

“Yeah, well now I’m getting off with you,” John smiled at the ceiling.

“I’m not hurting you?” Sherlock asked sleepily.

“You’re bony, but I’m used to that,” John laughed.

“Make love to me slowly next time.”

“Yeah, sure,” John yawned.

“You’ll regret not washing up, by the way.”

“Gods, I think you’re right,” John groaned, “Budge up.”

Sherlock slipped free and helped John to the bathroom and into the bathtub where the man raised his feet above the level of the tub by propping them on the sides of the tub. Sherlock checked his bandages while the tub filled and John smiled fondly at him.

“Should I join you? I understand people share baths when they’re a couple.”

“Normally I’d say no way in hell, but with my legs propped out there just _might_ be room.”

“I think we can manage,” Sherlock smiled, and slipped in with him, tucking his feet beneath John’s ass.

“That’s actually… comfortable.”

“Good,” Sherlock smiled, and materialized his phone from someplace.

John snickered and relaxed into the tub. He had no idea how long he fell asleep, but when he woke it was to find Sherlock’s face a few inches from his own.

“You’re making my eyes cross,” John snorted.

“I was memorizing your face while asleep. I’ve had little time to extrapolate those particular moments in your life. The face relaxes during sleep, it allows me to view your facial muscles naturally.”

“I think you’re beautiful too,” John smiled.

Sherlock returned it, “Thank you, but if we want to be able to finish off that third round we’d better head to bed first.”

“Mmm, morning sex. I love morning sex,” John grinned.

“You know, I think I might, too,” Sherlock grinned eagerly.

 

I had to break here, but there will be some tender lovin’ in the next chapter. Having a bit of an issue with the ending.


	23. Chapter 23

Sherlock woke up to the soft caress of John’s fingers through his hair and pressed back. The man had already slicked his cock and he slipped it between Sherlock’s thighs, thrusting lazily. Sherlock reached down to stroke his cockhead as it peaked out from between his legs.

“I thought I told you I wanted you _in_ me,” Sherlock growled.

“I _am_ in you. You’ve got all my come sloshing around inside your gut.”

“So romantic,” Sherlock snorted, rolling his eyes.

“Let me romance you properly, then,” John whispered, kissing Sherlock’s neck tenderly.

“I’m game.”

John rolled Sherlock over and kissed him slowly, enjoying the burn of their stubble rubbing together before working his way from cheek to ear. He nipped down the earlobe and flicked it with his tongue, making Sherlock shiver. John smiled as he suckled the man’s neck, marking him hungrily and enjoying the arch of his body as he groaned out his pleasure. Once he’d marked both sides of his neck he worked his way down to lap at his clavicle. And then nuzzled down the middle of his chest before detouring to each nipple for a loving suckle that turned far more intense than he’d meant it to when Sherlock gasped and arched in enjoyment.

“Like that, do you?” John growled, giving it a nip and savoring Sherlock’s shouts of approval.

The man wriggled eagerly as John nipped down his sides, laughing and moaning in alteration as John stimulated him relentlessly. When he got to the apex of his thighs he ravaged them, suckling and biting until he was crying out loud. Sherlock scratched at his scalp and alternated between spreading his legs wider and clamping them closed around John’s head as he was easily overwhelmed by the sensations John was stroking through him. He hadn’t even touched his cock yet.

“JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn…”

“Mmm, I like you like this.”

John buried his face in Sherlock’s bollocks, nuzzling them heatedly and then took first one testicle and then the other into his mouth, suckling them gently. Sherlock stilled in alarm, apparently not certain if he liked this, so John peered up and watched his eyes for a bit. When he remained uncertain John gave up on it and kissed down a thigh to nip at the sides of his knees before working back up the other one. Now he assaulted the man’s cock, suckling it lovingly as he worked his way down to the root and back up again where he slid his tongue beneath the foreskin while Sherlock gasped in excitement.

“Not yet,” Sherlock gasped, “Longer.”

“Mmm, I planned on it. Roll over for me,” Sherlock turned over and John spread his cheeks, smiling down at his pucker, “That long bath was worth it.”

John ran his tongue up Sherlock’s taint and lapped around his pucker, teasing it and enjoying Sherlock’s frantic gasps as his nerve endings were ignited. He pointed his tongue and thrust it inside, fucking him with it while he gasped and arched back against him. Sherlock seemed to enjoy the feel of his stubble burning his arsecheeks as much as he did the flickering of his tongue so John didn’t hold back as he buried his face in that lush flesh and scraped his teeth along it until Sherlock was crying out in bliss. John slipped his hand beneath Sherlock’s hips and moaned as the man rutted into his hand in desperation for release. He was shouting out John’s name, all but sobbing, so John pressed a digit into him and stroked his prostate twice while lapping around his entrance. Sherlock came with a scream of pleasure, grasping his finger and twitching against his tongue as his cock emptied onto the bedspread and John’s stroking fingers.

Sherlock went limp, panting and trembling with the force of his orgasm. John crawled up his body and pressed his cock between his cheeks, rolling his hips as he enjoyed the wet slide. It was an awkward thing since he couldn’t plant his feet well, but he laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and hummed his contentment nonetheless.

“Let me,” Sherlock panted.

“This is enough. Just this, feeling you boneless beneath me. Did you like that, love?”

“Yesssss,” Sherlock sighed.

“I’m so close,” John breathed, “Watching you come undone is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Mmm, come all over me, John,” Sherlock sighed, “Then I want you to lick it all off me.”

Sherlock gave him a filthy smirk over his shoulder just as John looked up, and that combined with his words spoken in that sultry voice drove John over the edge. He came with a grunt, pushing himself up on his hands so he could come cleanly over the man’s back. With a possessive growl he slid down and began to lap it up while staring up at Sherlock’s wide eyes as they stared over his shoulder in awe.

“You’re so responsive,” Sherlock breathed, “So passionate. So _mine_.”

“Yes,” John growled, giving the soft roll at his hip a nip, “Beautiful man.”

“John,” Sherlock closed his eyes and let his head fall forward, “You overwhelm me. I don’t deserve you.”

“Now _that’s_ not the Sherlock I know,” John replied, crawling up and stretching out beside him, “What’s going on?”

“It took me _ages_ to find you. I’ve never treated you well. I’m not a good man, John.”

“You’re good for me,” John reminded, “And no one- least of all me- blames you for taking a bit to find me.”

“I solve cases fast, John. In seconds. Except where it counted,” Sherlock replied, eyes still closed.

“Sher. Open your eyes. Look at me,” John urged, repeating it until he finally did, “I love you. I don’t care about anything else. I’ve changed my _sexuality_ for you… enthusiastically. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You’re human, Sherlock- as much as you don’t like to admit that- you’re entitled to mistakes. That being said, you made none. You rescued me, Sherlock.”

“You rescued yourself,” Sherlock replied bitterly.

“I was still trapped. Inside that room. Inside my head. Inside the disease destroying my body. I _needed_ you, and you were there. Frankly if I hadn’t killed him myself I think my recovery- mentally speaking- would be a long and drawn out process.”

Sherlock smiled softly, leaning forward to kiss him softly, “I love you. I never thought I’d feel that for anyone.”

“I love you, too. I never thought I’d have that with you. I never even _dared_ to feel that for you until now.”

“So where does that leave us?”

John smiled at the confusion and worry, so unfamiliar, in Sherlock’s eyes, and gently took his hand, “Right here.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade smiled as John and Sherlock bickered over their meal; it was more than a bit amusing to see the new couple dance around each other. John would reach for his hand and then quickly withdraw it before Sherlock could process what he was doing. Sherlock would notice the aborted movement and give him a confused glance as he tried to figure out what John wanted with his limited understanding of human interactions. Eventually Sherlock would figure it out, blush a bit, and then sit there trying to figure out if John was aborting the movement due to discomfort in public or Sherlock’s own scathing tongue. Finally Lestrade decided to spare them the continued awkwardness.

“Look, we all know, okay? It’s fine by us. We’re glad, really,” Lestrade grinned.

“Sorry?” John asked while Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

“We know… about you two being together now. It’s a bit _obvious_ , to use Sherlock’s term,” Lestrade laughed, “And… Listen, after all that went on a few weeks ago I need to say something to you that is _very_ overdue. Sherlock, we're not jealous of you down at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are _proud_ of you, and if you come down tomorrow there's not a man, from the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn't be glad to shake you by the hand.”

Sherlock blinked fast, looking as if he were trying to hold back tears. He gave Lestrade a confused look and then glanced at John for confirmation.

“He’s sincere, Sherlock. It’s not a jest,” John replied, finally taking his hand.

Sherlock looked back to Lestrade with wide eyes, as though trapped by them, and then stood carefully and gave him a slight bow before turning and hurrying out of the café. John stared after him in surprise, but when Lestrade tried to stand he stopped him.

“No, better let me. He’s… not used to respect,” John replied, and then hurried after him.

Lestrade watched in concern as Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the café while John tried to calm him, grasping one of his hands in both of his. There was a moment in which Sherlock seemed to be arguing and then John stepped in and they were hugging, Sherlock’s head resting on top of John’s. The man looked worried, confused, and more than a bit uncomfortable. John stepped back and said something that must have soothed him, then turned to the window and gave him a wave. A moment later he got a message.

**Sherlock needs to process. Give him some space, yeah? JW**

**No problem, but did I say something wrong? L**

**No. It’s just him being Sherlock. JW**

**Let me know if I can do anything. L**

**Just space, I think. JW**

Lestrade walked back to the office, Sherlock constantly in the back of his mind. He cared for the man, and not just because he was practically family, so he wanted them both to be happy. He was just thinking of calling Mycroft to have him explain the mess he’d made of the situation when his phone went off again.

**John says I should express my gratitude. SH**

**Thank you for your kind words. SH**

_John is good for him, and you know what? He’s good for John._ Lestrade smiled as he sank into his chair in front of his computer and pulled up the next case.

_Fin._


End file.
